The computer was responsive, hard-working and quick to process all tasks that it was assigned. Over time, however, with the large number of files it had in internal storage, the hard-drive became stretched to the limits. Neither did the computer have enough random access memory to adequately cope with the smooth running of normal day-to-day applications. The computer was markedly slowing down – and giving up.

The computer was taken to PC World where it was advised that its users should take it out into the “fresh air” before putting it into hibernation mode. An assurance was given that this would alleviate the computer’s problematic sluggishness. Alas, this was not to be.

The computer subsequently hired a number of consultants, one of whom advised the computer that its problems were not its problems per se, but the way it and its users thought about its problems. The consultant advised the computer that its internal pathways could easily be restored to their former position of normal functionality if the computer’s problems were merely viewed in a different light. Alas, it also was not to be.

Eventually, though, the computer was sent to a competent technician, who understood its particular types of issues well, having even done research in the field. The computer was most encouraged, though it recognised that inevitably the work done to it would be often slow, labourious and rather intricate.

In the course of the work, the technician discovered the files deeply hidden earlier in the computer’s life, and started to explore their contents. Unfortunately, these files contained viruses which, once released by the technician, spread throughout the computer’s hard-drive like wildfire. The technician attempted to install anti-virus software to kill the viruses, or at least mitigate the damage caused by them to the computer’s drive. However, the technician’s manager – and, later, the Director of the company – then dictated that the technician’s time with this particular computer was up.

Left to their own devices, the viruses, now running completely loose throughout the hard-drive, caused the computer’s operating system to behave even more erratically than it previously had, in some instances even causing it to act as though it were an entirely different operating system. The defragmentation program failed to work. Applications crashed or returned invalid data, and it became apparent that even hardware failure might become an issue.

Perhaps little more than a simple reboot would have once helped the computer to function at optimum level. Now, however, it needs a complete re-install of its operating system…and indeed, the kindest fate for it may be for it to finally display the Blue Screen of Death.

I have two therapy sessions to catch up on and, since I probably won’t write about them before tomorrow morning, a third will probably join them.  I remember the interactions pretty clearly, as I usually do – one pièce de résistance was asking C if therapy was really meant to make you feel worse, which hit a nerve ;) – but I just can’t find any motivation to record them in writing here (or anywhere else for that matter).  I think, letters to MPs notwithstanding, that as things draw to a close I’m increasingly finding our meetings to be utterly futile and to that end, perhaps, I can’t face writing about them.  To do so would maybe be to acknowledge that, this time next month, psychotherapy – my only hope of a recovery of sorts from my perpetual anguish – will in all likelihood be over.  That’s a thought that is both sobering and chilling.  CPN/SW or not, good family and friends or not, I’m not at all convinced that I can keep myself safe from the end of next month onwards.

To go from making what was really rather good progress in therapy to regressing into this barren Purgatory-like wasteland is frustrating to put it mildly.  I don’t know how to articulate my current feelings on the matter beyond that.  Grieving, hurt, depressed, anxious, angry, I suppose – but all of these with a certain degree of measured stoicism; perhaps I am simply resigned to his abandonment of me now.  Overall I feel straightforward but profound sadness and regret.  Sadness for the fact that I will miss him greatly, I suppose, and regret for what could have and should have been – a relationship that had the power, if given the requisite resources, to greatly improve my quality of life.

Even if I had the will to write up the last two sessions – even if I had it right now – I wonder to some extent what the actual point would be, because as I say our sessions are feeling increasingly pointless.  I don’t really blame him, and I don’t really blame me.  It feels inevitable that things would just sort of ‘trail off’ mid-sentence, mid-air, as D-Day approaches.  Just the nature of the beast, methinks.  Pointless, futile, dancing around things and dodging others.  Still, I suppose the reason I started writing such detailed posts on therapy in the first place was for a record…for reasons of mere posterity.  Empty discussion or not, surely it is equally important to discuss the final sessions of this process if that has been my aim.  So I should – and therefore, I have now decided, will – review them, but I can’t say when.

Because the problem is that my current apathy is not just about examining psychotherapeutic matters.  I am finding it excessively difficult to write about anything (perhaps not unlike how I felt two weeks ago and indeed a week before that).  In part (probably in large part) that’s because I have absolutely no life whatsoever.  Yeah, I sometimes go out for a drink with A or to a shop with my mother – but so what?  What’s that got to do with anything?  Who’d be interested in that?  Certainly not me, and since this blog (despite having quite a few lovely followers these days) is primarily my record of these dark times, I’m not going to blather on about stuff that bores me to death (death is more peacefully achieved by other means, thanks very much).

This failure of expression and engagement with life extends to contact with the outside world at large.  I’ve been ignoring Twitter, emails, text messages – everything.  I refuse to return my mother’s unanswered calls, and the only person I speak to is A.    I do go through phases of doing this every so often, but this feels deeper, like it’s likely to go on longer.  I’m in a rut, both in terms of social communication and in terms of the one form of communication I’ve always held so dear – writing.

I thought about taking a brief break from blogging – say a month or something – but as I stated here, my concern, justified or otherwise, is that even the most short-lived of interludes would lead to a situation where I never felt able to once more lift my metaphorical pen.  And ergo you get stupid little filler posts like this one, designed to at least be something, but which are pointless and vacuous in their story-telling and exasperating in what catalysed them.

But that’s not this blog’s fault.  I don’t hate this blog.  I do, however, despise its author.

In all seriousness I don’t really expect it to do any good, but you never know.  A friend of mine, through contacting her MP about the failures in her mental health care, did receive some very positive results, so it’s got to be worth a try.  At the very least, it’ll shake things up with C and Mr D-P

This will probably be a little repetitive if you’ve read my post on my history of therapy and if you’ve been following the Mr Director-Person series.

Dear Mr MP

Re:  Access to Mental Health Services, [My] Trust

I am writing to you as a constituent hoping that you will be able to assist me in accessing NHS services to which I am entitled for several serious mental health conditions. I am diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) and complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD) with psychotic and dissociative features as well as clinical depression and social anxiety, and have been ricocheted around both the NHS and private systems since about 1998 when I was 14.

It is clear to me that the [My] Trust, in its approach to my mental health problems, is placing me at serious personal risk by refusing to offer me adequate treatment. In order to explain the situation, I feel that it is necessary to provide some background information and catalogue a series of NHS failures which have led to the dire situation in which I now find myself.

At about the age of 14, when I first experienced notable mental distress, I was referred to a counsellor whom I met only once. Some time later I was referred to a trainee (child) psychiatrist that I met several times; however, when she left to take another job, I was left without any support whatsoever. Several years later, after having severe difficulty pursuing my schooling, I was referred to [C's] Hospital for a psychological assessment, but was regarded by the assessor with open contempt and was not referred for any therapy or psychiatric care whatsoever.

However, with familial support I was able to somehow manage to go to university, during which time my mental health issues were relatively stable. Unfortunately, though, I had a major breakdown in 2007 during a Masters course, meaning that I had to leave my course with a diploma instead. Upon consultation with my GP, I was referred for an assessment at [Big Scary Bin]. Eventually I saw a psychiatric nurse who referred me for group Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), but given the lengthy waiting list for this, I saw both a psychologist and hypno-therapist in the private sector. Thanks in particular to the latter, I was able to return to a part-time job.

I was subsequently contacted by [Big Scary Bin] regarding the group CBT sessions, but unfortunately these clashed with my morning job. I asked the individual that had contacted me if it would be possible to arrange an alternative time, and he confirmed that afternoon sessions were available on a one-to-one basis, though the waiting list for this was much longer. I agreed to wait for these individual sessions; however, I was never again contacted by anybody in relation to this matter.

On 4 August 2008, after having battled against a major depression in my job (which had since become full-time), I broke down completely and had to go off work. I have been off work since. My condition was so bad that my GP sent out a Crisis Resolution Team (CRT) to my house, a referral only made in serious circumstances. Unfortunately I was patronised and all but openly derided by the CRT, who left claiming that they would, again, refer me to a CBT therapist.

Knowing how long the waiting lists for this were likely to be, in the interim period I consulted a CBT therapist in the private sector and saw her for several months. Although we had a good relationship, the cost of the treatment – for someone absent from work in particular – was prohibitive, and furthermore unfortunately CBT as a therapeutic modality simply did not help me at all. At this point it was considered that I was suffering from depression and anxiety ‘alone’, for which CBT is often an effective treatment. However, as was later determined, I also have BPD and C-PTSD, for which CBT is generally not empirically proven.

During a routine appointment with her Nurse Practitioner in late 2008, my mother found out that the CRT had not made any referral in my case as they had claimed they would. The Nurse Practitioner therefore referred me herself for an assessment at [C's] Hospital.

In January 2009, my GP also referred me to a psychiatrist.

On 29 February 2009, I first met [C], a clinical psychologist at [C's] Hospital. After three assessment sessions, [C] decided that an alternative approach to CBT would be appropriate and offered me the opportunity to keep seeing him specifically. I accepted this and, for the first time, I have found the relationship and the work conducted therein to have been of genuine benefit. As of the date of this letter, I have had 59 sessions with [C]; although since three of these were preparatory assessments and four are designed to facilitate the ending of the treatment, this amounts to a year’s therapy.

In May 2009, I was finally seen by a consultant psychiatrist (after a number of follow-up calls from my GP, and an additional referral from [C]). After assessment I was diagnosed with BPD (with a differential diagnosis of bipolar disorder, type II).

Research literature (and, indeed, my care team) is generally agreed that the treatment for BPD consists of long-term psychotherapy, of a minimum of 18 months – preferably twice a week (my therapy is once weekly). Medication can help manage certain symptoms such as depression and psychosis (in my case hallucinations), but therapy is considered the mainstay of treatment for this disorder. I personally know several individuals in other Trust areas that have received therapy for the same or similar ranging from two years up to over four.

Despite this, however, I was told by [C] in December 2009 (shortly after I lost my job due to my long-term absence) that he could only continue seeing me until August 2010. When I protested that longer-term therapy than what he was proposing was required, he agreed, stating that unfortunately certain constraints inhibited his ability to offer longer-term therapy, and said that he would support any complaint on my part. To that end, I wrote to the local mental health charity, Mindwise, and to the [My] Trust’s Director of Mental Health, [Mr Director-Person].

Unfortunately Mindwise dismissed my concerns, but [Mr Director-Person] did reply and I have been in correspondence with him since (copies enclosed). However, he has to date point-blank refused to allow my treatment to continue longer than the currently proposed timeframe, despite the inadequacy of the treatment the Trust is offering and the apparent postcode lottery that appears to permeate mental health care.

The Trust’s approach is in contravention of both personality disorder guidelines from the National Institute on Clinical Excellence, and the Northern Ireland Personality Disorder Strategy of June 2010. Although both recommend specific therapies for illnesses such as BPD (such as Dialectical Behavioural Therapy, Transference-Focused Therapy, and others) they also state that in the absence of facilities for same, more ‘generic’ therapy of the type I am presently receiving and finding useful should be provided.

In March 2010, my consultant psychiatrist (a different person from the one who diagnosed my BPD) felt that I was also afflicted with complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD) as a result of significant trauma in childhood. This illness is similar to but distinct from BPD, and psychosis and dissociation are common in both. Unfortunately, exploring the traumas in therapy – something I was only able to do properly in about March 2010 owing to considerable defence mechanisms and even amnesiac elements surrounding the issues – has left me thoroughly re-traumatised (as well as strongly suicidal, depressed and anxious). Whilst I accept that this is an inevitable part of therapy, the problem is that a matter of mere months is simply not adequate to help me to deal with and get over not only the original traumas, but this level of re-traumatisation. The re-traumatisation has caused even more severe flashbacks, serious hallucinations and considerable dissociation, including but not limited to my ‘waking up’ in places without awareness of how I got there.

[C] and my psychiatrist, [NewVCB], have proposed discharging me to a community psychiatric nurse or a social worker upon the cessation of therapy, but no one has been able to tell me what these individuals do, how they could help me in resolving and managing my current difficulties and traumas, and how this can be considered an adequate substitute for continued psychotherapy. It is my belief, supported by academic literature and research, that the best person to give me any chance of recovery is a qualified therapist such as [C].

The struggle with the Trust’s uncooperative and frankly negligent approach to my condition has in fact contributed to the worsening of my mental state, exacerbating feelings of worthlessness and despair. The Trust provided a good, functional relationship with a competent therapist but is now determined to terminate that relationship unreasonably whilst providing no adequate replacement treatment.

As this letter has detailed, it took me over 12 years to meet a therapist that I felt could genuinely help me, and I feel it is not unreasonable of me to wish to continue with this helpful work, particularly in light of the problems the health service has produced in the past. Furthermore, I am all but certain if I am discharged from therapy now, that I will merely be referred – perhaps more troubled and traumatised than ever – in the future, which will not do anything to save health service costs. Finally, as I am still unable to work, the public sector is not in any way saving money by discharging me prematurely from therapy; if my work with [C] were allowed to continue, I believe that I could return to work sooner than otherwise, thus saving public sector funds in the long-term.

I am convinced that a discharge from treatment when one is in a worse state than when that treatment commenced would not happen in the realm of physical health, where conditions are treated until they are either cured/remitted or can be adequately managed by the patient alone. The lack of resources of the [My] Trust should not be translated into inadequate care for the mentally ill. It should not be forgotten that approximately one in four people will suffer from some form of mental illness, whilst only 5% (source) of NHS funds are directed towards resolving these issues.

In conclusion, I am asking you as my political representative to assist me in accessing the psychological treatment that I desperately need, and to which under the various guidelines and indeed the very ethos of the NHS I am entitled. Should you require further information on how my illnesses impact upon my everyday life, I should be happy to provide same. I am sending you this letter both in your capacity as my MP and as an MLA for my area. I am also copying this correspondence to other [my constituency] MLAs and to Michael McGimpsey in his capacity as Health Minister.

I understand that after my mother (and registered carer), [her name], contacted you regarding the provision of mental health services, you were very helpful in the matter, about which I am greatly encouraged. I would be very grateful for your prompt attention in this matter, especially as I am due to be discharged from my treatment at the end of August.

Thank you very much in advance for your time and assistance.

Kind regards.

Yours sincerely

Me

Encs

I’ve been reading some of your comments, here, on Twitter and on Facebook about this matter and almost without exception you agree with me both in my right to be angry, and in that there is no way I should be discharged from therapy.  I was wondering if you would mind if I presented him with a collection of these comments.  I wouldn’t, of course, use any names, websites or any other identifying information unless you specifically requested that I do so.

I’m not stupid enough to suspect that he will take an tangible notice of any such comments, but I think it’s outrageous that he’s going around thinking I’m being unreasonable (especially when he tried to encourage me to fight the Trust back in December / January), and I want him to know that I have yet to meet anybody that would even remotely agree with his apparent position.

If anyone objects to their comment being used, please just comment here.  On the other hand, if you would like something to be included, I’m game!  Let me know.  x

BY POPULAR DEMAND, AND FOR ONE POST ONLY…

CONFESSIONS OF A SERIAL INSOMNIAC BRINGS YOU...

THE
NEXT
THRILLING
INSTALMENT
OF

C

WEEK 57

CUE LA MUSICA DRAMATICA:

(Anyone that gets the aural reference gets a gold star.  I think I’m looking at you, Karita… )

This post follows on from the extraordinarily thrilling events detailed here.  The following may make no sense if you have not read them.  It may also may no sense if you have.  Then again, they were so tremendously exciting that if you read or have read them, you might die of a hedonism-induced heart attack, so proceed with caution.  Alternatively you might die of a boredom-induced heart attack so, again, proceed with caution.  If you really must read this pointless wank, be prepared to be blown away in amazement by my inspirational transcriptional crafting and the thrilling nature of the fabulous material contained herein.  Either that or expect to find a cure for chronic insomnia.

[The Scene:  C has just admitted to Pandora that it is inevitable that, as he has worked with her for some time, he cares for her in some way].

This should have set a fire of joy off in my heart; he was effectively telling me that he cared, in whatever way his profession allows, about me.  But I was too depressed, suicidal and fixated with his abandonment of me that I didn’t care.

Eyes firmly ensconced towards the floor, I made some noise of response suggesting that any response on his part was purely professional.

“Have these things been on your mind recently?” C queried.  I suppressed a laugh.  What a stupid fucking question to ask.  As if there’s ever anything else (other than suicide, I suppose) on my mind!

I shifted uncomfortably in the seat, and sat silently.  Eventually, whilst still avoiding his gaze completely, I nodded subtly.

“You’re frightened about how I’ll respond to what you want to say,” he said, proving once again his innate and remarkable aptitude for Stating the Fucking Obvious.

You know, at the time I didn’t make the connection.  Now, as I write this, the question seems slightly out of place with my refusal to admit to my suicidal ideation, and much more connected with my perceptions of what he felt about me.  Therefore, it seems he thought that the thing I wanted to say was that I am obsessed with him and want him to like and take care of me.  He’s bound to know that, is he not?  Why do I have to go through the affront of being forced to admit that verbally?  In this particular instance he was wrong.  I was considering telling him that I’m stockpiling medication.  Of course, whilst this is true, was my game-playing of telling/not telling him an avoidance technique to avoid telling him the rest?  Or was it, as I later denied, a “cry for help”?  Who knows.

Anyway, I told him that I didn’t want to discuss the matter with him, but he tried to point out that there were bound to have been things in the past that I had not wanted to address, but when I had, they were not as bad as I might have supposed.  Even though I couldn’t think of an example, I admitted that this had probably been the case at some point or another.

I listened intently to the progressively annoying rhythmic ticking of the clock throughout the ensuing silence.  At least the arseholes from the corridor had apparently been diffused (hopefully literally).

“It must be tricky to be in this position,” said C eventually, but I chose not to respond.  After a few minutes he went on a bit again about how I felt about him and what he thought about me, so he clearly thought – or, as he later proved, merely appeared to think – that everything I was hiding was related to this issue.

“So what if it’s tricky?” I asked mournfully, resenting the fact that he was making me more and more miserable – and, what’s more, visibly and verbally so – than I had been.

“I’m just putting that out there,” he replied.  I hate this fucking phrase of his.  Just say what the sodding hell it is that you want to say, C, please!  You’re the one that gets paid to have these fucking conversations, you need to do some of the fucking work here!

I ignored him, but was stunned – utterly stunned - when he said, “this goes back to what you said earlier about being homicidal or suicidal, doesn’t it?  Maybe you feel that you’re the cunt and that you may as well kill yourself.”

I looked up in a flash and gawked at him.  ”My God, you’re good,” I said, laughing in surprise.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: he doesn’t just look (a little bit) like Derren Brown.  He’s a fucking mindreader too.  Just when I thought he was felt that my thoughts were related to something completely different, he jumps in and works the dirty little enigma right out.

He appeared to be surprised that he had read my mind, and asked in what way.  I admitted, finally – and before I could change my mind – that I was stockpiling pills.  He asked which ones, and I said anything on which I could get my hands that I knew could be lethal in overdose.

Then I said, “have you ever seen a film called The Bridge?”  [I have become obsessed with watching this disturbing but very human masterpiece in the last fortnight or so, and would heartily recommend it to everyone].

“No, but it’s on my to-see list.  That’s the one where people jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, right?”

“Yes.  Watch it.  It’s good.”

“You saw it recently?”

“Yes.  I was actually on the Golden Gate Bridge a few years ago,” I went on, sighing.  ”Unfortunately I was moderately sane at the time and didn’t consider jumping from it.  That was a mistake.”

He asked how long I’d been stockpiling for.  I wasn’t sure exactly but reckoned it was months.  I told him I’d become fixated with the film as I was fixated with suicide and that when I finally watched it, it was ‘beautiful’ (even if a jumper’s death itself is not the most pleasant).

Only 2% of jumpers have survived the leap from the Bridge.  C asked if any of them had been interviewed in the film, and as fortune would have it, one man with a severe form of bipolar disorder actually had been.  C was obviously hoping that this bloke would say he was glad that he was not killed.  As it happens, that’s exactly what he said, though I was cursory in my admissions of this to C.

In a later but related rant, I pointed out that stability in my life has been found on some occasions.  However, it’s only ever for a few months…maybe a few years if I’m exceptionally lucky.   The guy who lived to tell the tale of plunging into San Francisco Bay regretted jumping as soon as his hands left the railings, apparently, and was subsequently glad to have lived.  But…will he always be thus glad?  What happens if and when he’s back in the throes of the deepest, darkest, cruellest recesses of the human mind?  What happens if, for instance, his voices return, and order him to kill himself?  What happens, in general, if and when his stability is once again lost?

I wish him well, and hope that he doesn’t experience any suicidal ideation ever again, and I also hope he never has any reason to.  But in my own case, I don’t believe I can ever be cured, and indeed the whole ‘retraumatise-abandon’ issues of therapy’s closing weeks have led me to believe that I am going to be so badly traumatised all over again that a state where I can adequately manage my mentalism can never be attained.  Why bother, I philosophised to C, when it always comes back to this?  It’s a pointless, fruitless little dance of abject, round-the-fucking-mulberry-bush misery.  Why bother?

I went on to tell him about an interview in the film with the parents of a ‘successful’ jumper, the content of which mesmerised me.  The father said, his wife nodding quietly in agreement, that although they obviously missed their son very much and regretted that his life had been so marred by misery, they had a “who are we to challenge this?” attitude to his suicide.  They honestly felt that if his life was so unbearable, that it would have been selfish for them to have tried to keep him alive.  The father said, “some people talk of their body as a temple.  [Their son's] was a prison.”  Their mature selflessness, their humanity, brought me to silent tears.

“That’s an attitude that I think could be wisely fostered by many people,” I said.

“So, regarding you stockpiling these pills, you think I should just say, ‘OK, fair enough, kill yourself if you want to’, is that it?” he asked me.

“Maybe, but it wasn’t really you that came to mind when I regaled you with that story.  I’m more thinking about my mother.”  I exemplified by telling him about the third conversation detailed herein.

“Have you thoughts of actually taking these pills?” he questioned.

“Yes.  I am planning to do so, but not imminently.”

“You’ll be here next week?”

“Yes, unless something dramatic happens.”

“Where has this come from, Pandora?”

I considered the question briefly.  ”That fucking poison Venlafaxine doesn’t work,  this [therapy, a relevant gesture denoting his room] hasn’t work, isn’t being allowed time to work – I’m at least in the same mental position I was two years ago, and indeed it’s probably worse.”  At this juncture I went into the aforereferenced “what’s the point?  It always comes back to this” rant.

“This isn’t a life, this is an existence,” I declared (one of my favourite phrases, it seems).  ”That’s always been the case, but I had some tiny semblance of hope, quantum as it may often have been.  I don’t even feel that anymore.  Only a handful of people would miss me anyway, and what they don’t even realise is that they’d be better off without me.”

He asked how long my suicidal ideation had been building for, and I concluded it was since about April, which is when I started collecting prescriptions.

“If you take a massive overdose, you do realise you’ll be given your medication weekly,” he said.

“Of course, but that assumes that I awake from said overdose, which I have no intention of doing,” I responded in the blink of an eye.

“Are there times when you haven’t felt this way?  These thoughts seem especially strong of late.”

“I can honestly say that, in – oh? – the last 20 years, I think, there hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t thought about suicide to one extent or another.  I remember telling that to A once, and he said he couldn’t conceive of it.  I said that I couldn’t conceive of it not being the case.”

C annoyed me again by telling me that I am, he thinks, an expert in Not Killing Myself.

Right on, C.  What you don’t seem to realise, mate, despite my having already intimated the relevant information to you, is that I’m also an expert on not not killing myself.  There’s at least one newsgroup out there in the ether that details exact ways to do it (peacefully), and I am now intimately acquainted with the methods described therein.  In fact, there’s also at least three published books on the same issue – two get away with it by pretending they’re about euthanasia in the cases of terminal physical illness, but one is really open about having a pro-choice attitude towards topping yourself.  I have a copy of the latter.

(Actually, it’s a very interesting book to read even if you’re not intent on doing yourself in ((assuming you have some sort of interest in psychology, sociology, anthropology or any other -ology that takes an interest in the comings and goings of human beings)).  The first part of it, before the ‘methods’ section, includes quite a comprehensive consideration of suicide and suicidality as a societal phenomenon.  Much better than Emile Durkheim’s unbearable dirge on the same subject, though to be fair the whole approach is rather different and about 100 years more relevant).

Anyway, my feelings on suicide are meant to be for another post – one that is in the making, I promise.

I said, “it’s not through want of trying,” but the smug git instantaneously batted back with, “well, you don’t try to kill yourself every day.”

He cocked his head at me and said, “look, I take what you’re saying, I get that you feel this way.  I just think you must be fairly resilient as well.”

I laughed bitterly at him and proclaimed ‘resilient’ to be “not a word I would use to describe myself.”

And then….

Nothing.

Except…

Tick, tock…tick, tock….tick, tock.

I wanted to turn round, pull the offensive object off the wall and throw it out the window with a brute force seen only during absolute, unquantifiable rage.  Or maybe I could have considered throwing it at C’s face; that could have been an attractive option at points.  With the clock’s infuriating bloody tick tock mantra, I could hear my time with C ending, those few precious weeks disappearing down some cruel wormhole of time.  C rubs that finity in my face, NewVCB rubs it in my face, Mr fucking Director-Person rubs it in my face, and now even the bastarding clock thinks it is funny to rub it in my face (or, more specifically, eardrums).  Thanks, world.  Thanks so much, you fucking cunts!

After 17 super-eons (OK, there’s a considerable surfeit of casual cosmological terms in this post, what the fuck is that about?) he eventually said that perhaps I felt I was being left alone to deal with all this stuff.  I smiled cynically in response.

Wow, look at Einstein over there.  How insightful, C, that’s brilliant.  Well done.  Get out the champagne, my friend, because you have just come out with the psychological equivalent of the general theory of rela-fucking-tivity.  Or perhaps it’s something akin to the very first tentative bold but wise suggestions that the Earth was not, in fact, flat.  WELL. DONE. C.

“I’m used to that,” I whined.

I paused, then whinged for a few minutes more about how contemplating suicide was very comforting and liberating.  ”You know,” I said.  ”To know that you don’t have to put up with it any longer, to know that at any point you can just go, ‘fuck it, cheerio existence’.”

“Hmm, hmm,” he responded.

For some reason the ‘hmms’ enraged me, and I said, challengingly, “you don’t think I’m going to do it, do you?”

“That sounds like a dangerous mindset to get into,” he replied, furrowing his brow.  ”It’s like you think that for me to take how you feel seriously, you have to do something, such as taking an overdose, to make me believe…”

(Well, actually, asking for your help hasn’t fucking worked, so yeah, I could see how I might think this, as it happens.  STFU).

“I’m not trying to make a point to you,” I interrupted, shaking my head vigourously.  ”I just don’t think you think that I’m going to do it, and I am.”

He went off into a monologue in which he opined that he doesn’t think I have sat down and said, “right, let me make a point to C here…ha ha, I told you so,” but that I have, barely consciously, concluded that this is “the only way [I] can communicate how [I] feel”, and that the only way in which he will “actually understand” me is by my “showing it”.

“You see,” I sighed, again shaking my head at him, “you’re fixated on the idea that I want to communicate something.  I don’t want to communicate something.  I don’t want to exist.  That’s what I want.”  (Or rather don’t, I suppose).

Thinking that he was probably wondering why, then, I had bothered to communicate this information to him, I said that I was only telling him about it because he had already worked it out with his Derren Brown/Mysterion-like powers of mental deduction.  Which, although the matter had been floating around in my mind throughout the session, was sort of true.  Intellectually, I always knew I should tell him, but as already discussed, I really didn’t want to.

“What’s that like for you?  That you feel I’m not taking you seriously?” he asked.

“It doesn’t particularly surprise me,” I responded, in what might have been a slightly pompous, dismissive tone.  Just maybe and just slightly…hmm.  Then, “everybody thinks it’s a ‘cry wolf’ issue.”

He said, “so what did you think I was going to say?  Sort of brush it off and say, ‘oh never mind, she won’t do it’, or what..?”

I smiled cruelly and said,  ”I expected you to say, ‘maybe you should phone the Samaritans’.”  I laughed slightly at the idea, of which he had previously been a proponent.

This remark, to my considerable surprise, seemed to cut him to the bone, to the extent that, despite my palpable wryness at this juncture, I actually felt guilty.

C sighed and said, apparently very earnestly, “I hope I take you seriously – well, I do take you seriously…I hope you feel I take you seriously.”

“Is that a question?” I checked, and he nodded uncertainly.

Overcome with my own guilt, I said, “I do, yeah.”  Which is mostly the truth; I just get so frustrated at the difficult circumstances under which we presently find ourselves, and end up remembering every little thing he has done to piss me off.  In general, it is not my held position in the least that he patronises or dismisses me, and it was indeed cruel, by dent of my underhand Samaritans comment, to suggest otherwise.

“Look, I just wonder if the fact that I’ve actually bothered to tell you this means that you think it’s indicative of it being some silly cry for help, which it isn’t,” I told him, trying to be as nice as I could about it.

“That suggests that wanting help is silly, which I don’t think,” he told me.

“Let me rephrase, then.  What do they call people like me in general…manipulative?  Attention seeking?  Some other pejorative nasty referencing how annoying I am?”

He ignored the latter part of my statement and replied, with enraging reasonableness, that “I see it as that someone who is in distress quite justly wants or needs to be attended to”.

I looked away, unable to think of a clever comeback, and listened to the sodding, cunting, fucking, bastarding clock ticking away the last few seconds of my time with him that morning.

“We’re going to have to finish for today,” he predictably told me in due course.  ”But this is something for us to be looking at [oh, really?] and for me to be taking seriously with you.  I’ll be bringing this back up next week [oh really? x II].”

“OK,” I nodded, and I went to leave.

He stopped me from going however, which – as noted on the only other occasion that I remember him doing it, not that I can be arsed looking for the link right now – suggests that he is actually worried about my state of mind.  I suppose having had me just confess that I have a lethal amount of pills that I fully intend to ingest might just create such worry, to be fair.  Though it is only professional concern, I remain convinced.

“The most important thing for now,” he started, “is that that you’re saying that you don’t have any plans to enact this lethal act today, or in the immediate future.  You’re not going to do this now.  You will be here next week?”

“I have a date in mind which is not in the next week,” I confirmed.

He looked visibly relieved, though I suspect that is only in relative terms.  I tried to smile reassuringly, but I’m not sure I succeeded.

I was still alive for the next session, about which I hope to write soon, and during which I apologised for the laughable histrionics about which you have just read.  It sounds so pathetically childish and self-absorbed as I read it back, but then in thinking that I am betraying my own position on suicide, which is that it is not a per se selfish act.

For those of you convinced that I’ll be dead shortly, please don’t worry.  I told A on Friday night that I’ll try my best to remain alive until such times as a natural or accidental death is forthcoming, and that’s about as big a reassurance as I can give.

There’s very little of amusement on which I can end this.  So I’ll just take the finality of this post out of my hands  [Warning: do not view the embedded video if you are overly PC, offended easily, have a sense of humour that is not sick or twisted, yadda, blah, meh, gah, la, da, de, wah, etc]

Click here to view the embedded video.

I was bricking myself about this session with C, after his apparent transference-related realisations at the end of the last meeting.  I don’t want to tell him I want him to hold me, stroke my hair, soothingly kiss my forehead and softly whisper protective words in my ear.  I mean, who would want to reveal such intimate and one-sided desires?  I was totally dreading having to verbally enunciate such material, but in the end – although C made some references to the transference issues at points – I was successful in dodging much of it.  Result.  (Except that it’s not, of course, because presumably this is necessary discussion.  But, in the short-term, this worked very nicely for me).

However, we did end up having a protracted and painful discussion about something else – suicide.  Of course, we have certainly discussed this thoroughly in the past – but, shit suicide attempt in January excepted, this was the first time that I did more than just allude to it as a concept; I actually told him in depth that I had plans to do myself in.

First, however, I had house-keeping matters to deal with.  I was mortified to ask if he would provide me with a letter for the DLA people to confirm that I had been seeing him.  Now I’m mortified that I was mortified.  I should not be ashamed of being on state benefits, because I am claiming for genuine reasons – it’s not like I’m really some sort of shit dolescum twat.  Simultaneously, I hate being a claimant and find it an immensely degrading place in which to be, and it’s bad enough thinking about that myself, never mind having to remind someone that I all but revere of the fucking matter.  In fact, so disgusted was I about bringing it up that I was really quite disparaging about my claim.

I told him that the woman at the CAB had advised that, in light of my declaration of my C-PTSD diagnosis, C should note as part of the claim that I was seeing him, in part, to address trauma issues in the aftermath of child sexual abuse.  ”I don’t feel entirely comfortable with acknowledging that to the Social Security Agency,” I said, “but that’s what she advised.”  I shrugged, resignedly.

I went on to point out that acknowledgement of both psychoses and dissociation would also be helpful, then winced and said, “I don’t like having to ask you to do this.”  Read:  I don’t like you being reminded of the fact that I am a useless tax-scrounging cunt.  I want you to think of me as intelligent and articulate, but that’s not what you’re seeing.  So you must hate me.

He said, “I can certainly write them a letter, that’s no problem.  I can say you’ve been attending since February 2009 and we’re due to be concluding at the end of August 2010…”

Thanks C, rub it in.  Just what I need to hear at every fucking juncture.  Besides which, the people who work in the social security are not very bright.  They will assume that a cessation of therapy automatically denotes that I am now well.

“Can you not say that please?” I pleaded.  ”If they think you’re discharging me, they’ll think I’m well, which I’m certainly not.  They see things in very black and white terms in my experience.”

He agreed that he “would certainly not give that impression,” then asked me if I was really sure he wanted to reference child sex abuse.

I paused, considering it.  I mean, of course I don’t want that information floating about so evidently in the system.  But on the other hand, I need this claim to be renewed, otherwise I will not be able to survive and will have no choice but to catch the bus.  It is, aside from this, a mere option, but to be so financially fucked as a non-renewal would make me would very definitely make the decision for me.  I sighed, and told him to go ahead.

Rather than just agree to acknowledge the abuse very clearly, C proposed that he draft a letter, which I could then ‘OK’ or reject as applicable the following week, though he then went on to say that he had “mixed feelings” about being so forthright.  I agreed that if you have the symptoms, then you do – what has actually caused them is none of the SSA’s bloody business.

The session proceeded in a curious fashion.  There were several lengthy silences, which were then broken by C making some point about the claim and those assessing the claim.  He eventually asked was there some sort of “shake-up” in DLA, which I confirmed to be the case.

“I’m hoping it won’t affect me unduly,” I admitted, “because I hope to be back at work by then.  However, I expected to be back at work last time after a month or two, and here we are two years later.  So who the fuck knows.”

Time for C to try and annoy me.  It happens at least once every session, does it not?  I think they must be trained at Therapist University to make irritating points when engaging with clients.  It must be intended to force underlying tensions out of us or something.

“Have you ever considered returning now to some sort of work?” he asked.

“Nope,” I replied, straight off the bat.

He looked at me questioningly, so I explained that I can’t think beyond the next hour, never mind any more long-term than that.

He pressed on, asking what it was that I felt was so strongly preventing me from considering a return to work at the moment.

I said, scathingly, that being a risk of losing time, hallucinating and being overwhelmingly depressed and anxious did not present the best circumstances in which to rejoin the employment market, adding that having such an added stress before I was fully able to deal with it would be helpful to neither the potential employer nor me.

“But I suppose I’m thinking,” C replied, “that work doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing thing.”

“OK, but even a couple of hours here and there – I just cannot conceive of how that’s feasible.”

My irritation was compounded by the fact that some pack of cunts or other were heard to be engaging in conversation outside C’s door.  The room is meant to be deathly quiet, devoid of distractions.  I wanted to go into the corridor and smash the offenders’ faces off the relevant party wall until they begged for mercy.  There is a whole hospital campus, with an extensive outside area (not to mention a canteen), where these wankers could have gone to engage in their banal drivel.  Outside a psychologist’s door that clearly indicates he is in a meeting and not to be disturbed was not the best choice to start up a conversation on anything much.

And bloody C himself wouldn’t let up on the jobs front.  Seriously, what the fuck?  I can understand the desire to challenge my current lines of thinking – but only within reason.  I made it very clear to him that this was not an area in which I felt there was an alternative view.  I know I cannot cope with work in any meaningful fashion as things stand.  And I’m not the only one: A and my mother strongly agree.  Sometimes C will challenge me on something, and I’ll think, “well, there’s maybe a point there,” and I’ll tell him that – but this is one occasion in which I genuinely felt I was the best judge of the situation, and ergo his constant harping served merely to frustrate and annoy.

He claimed, when I showed myself to be visibly pissed off, that he had no vested interest in whether or not I worked; he was, apparently, simply curious as to why I felt that I couldn’t.  ”Although,” he added, demonstrating the reality of his desire to pursue this line of questioning, “I suppose I do think that if a person can work, that that can be a very positive thing, even if it’s only volunteering for a couple of hours a week.  It’s not because it’s work, but it’s about being with people.”

As if I am not aware of such an argument as a proponent of jobs.  Of course I am.  I just can’t deal with people.  I said so.  ”They make me both homicidal and suicidal, and should go away and leave me alone,” I spat.

There was a long silence, save for the unabated deliberations of shite in the corridor.  The presence of those conversing underlined my point that other people make me homicidal.  I sat daydreaming for a bit about how I would smash them all in if they were still there upon conclusion of my meeting with C.

Eventually I was asked if I had any opportunities to meet new people, to which I responded by saying that nearly all such “opportunities” were rejected by me, as I do not wish to meet or see people, except within very strict parameters set by me.

However, I proceeded to tell him about a planned “Mad Up” next month (a group of mental health bloggers including Lola, Karita, Little Feet, me and more are meeting up in London, though I hadn’t confirmed my attendance at the time).  ”I mean,” I started.  ”That’s different.  If there’s ever going to be people I want to meet, then it’s them.”

He started wanking on yet again about internet relationships being different; at the moment this lot are all ‘good’, and perhaps if I had ‘normal’ off-line relationships with them all, I would be scared that they would not always be ‘good’.  However, meeting them for one day only mitigates that risk.

“Are you therefore suggesting that I move to England for the sake of making sure I form so-called ‘proper’ relationships with these invididuals?” I asked, not even trying to hide my contempt.

“No,” he said.  ”I’m just saying it’s not the same – yet, anyway – as what we might think of as more typical friendships.  However, I’m not discouraging you – I think that sounds really positive.  It proves there’s a part of you that wants to leave the sofa, leave the house, get out there and engage with the world.”

“It’s a small part,” I replied dismissively.  ”After all, most people are cunts.  Just…this bunch aren’t.”

Apparently I sounded angry when I used the word ‘cunts’, which I didn’t think was an accurate representation of the issue – you have to spit the word ‘cunt’ out, don’t you, otherwise it just sounds silly.  ’Cunt’ is phonetically designed to sound harsh, even if you say it with the most saccharine sweetness imaginable.  Perhaps he should have studied linguistics as well as psychology.  It could have been insightful for him.

This gave him an opportunity to say that apparently I felt that he was angry with me, and therein lay his chance to explore the transference issues apparently revealed to him in the previous session.  I reminded him that what I had actually said was that I believed he hated me because he was always accusing me of being aggressive.

“Have you become quite…focused on this idea that I don’t like you, then?” C asked me.

My head was fried thinking about it and thinking about how much I withdraw from life, whether deliberately or otherwise.  As I sit here now of course I can quite easily say that yes, I ‘focus’ quite a bit on the idea that C hates me.  At the time, I couldn’t think straight, so I told him I didn’t know.

He let it pass and we sat in silence for a bit.  I was desperately trying to get my thoughts together – in particular, I was trying to fight all the suicidal thoughts that had been pervading my consciousness for weeks, not because I have any strong opinion on them, but because I didn’t want to reveal them to him.  I’m always scared he’ll ring the bin and I’ll find myself locked up, even if my rational mind realises that to be unlikely.

But when he asked me what was “going on for [me]” as we sat there, I admitted that I was thinking about things that I thought I should tell him, but was scared to.

“OK, maybe you can tell me what it is that you fear about telling me,” he suggested.

I fear you having me locked up.  Yeah, that doesn’t give the game away or anything.

“To do so would be to provide you with the information anyway.”

“Right…well, how might I respond to whatever it is?”

“In a not particularly attractive fashion.”

“What fashion?”

“You see, that’s the point, C: if I tell you that, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

He thought for a minute, then said, “but I think you can say that you reckon I’d be anxious, angry, concerned, worried, annoyed or something like that – I don’t think I’d be able to work out specifics from you saying that.”

This made me want to laugh out loud.  As if he would be any of those things.  It’s just a fucking job to him.

“Using any of those adjectives assumes an over-investment on your part,” I told him.

“In you?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought it might just be normal,” he said, making some hand gesture to supposedly support what he said.  ”You have thoughts and feelings about people you’re working with, and you and I have been working together for quite some time.  It would be a bit strange if I was just like a robot or something.  Of course you do know I have response to things.”

Ooooh!!!  Did you hear that, readers?!  Dun-dun-DUN!!!

Here, my loves, we leave our epic fly-on-the-wall voyeurism of Alice-like wonder and utter, indescribable joy.  Follow the amazing developments in Part II, coming soon to a PC/Mac/Linux or Unix OSed computer near you.

Has he complimented me?  Does he care?  Does he work the nature of the transference out?  Will I do myself in?  Will I do him in?  Will I get a life?  Will I care?  Will C get an iPhone 4?  Will his beard come back?  Will I transmogrify into a demon and attempt to possess him?

Find out all this and more meaningless bollocks in the next deeply un-thrilling instalment of C: Week 57…NEXT! [LA MUSICA DRAMATICA]

This meeting took place on Tuesday 29th June (C had swapped his days from Thursday), but should have been on Thursday 24th.  As stated and explained the other day, for the first time in our entire relationship, I cancelled the session on the 24th, so this was the first time I saw him in over a week.

Mutual agreement was that the session had ended up being a bit disjointed, but I think in some ways it was nevertheless useful – certainly much more so than the Thursday one would have been had I gone.

The conversation opened with a rant from me on how horrified I was that, straight after leaving C’s office, I would be forced to see Paedo, after my mother’s non-consultative decision to take me to Hotel California.  It feels a little odd writing about this now, as I have been and gone on this delightful little sojourn, and in the end it went as OK as such things can.  However, I was certainly not looking forward to it as I sat there with C, and must confess to being somewhat critical of my mother for some time.

I don’t remember exactly what was said, but there was one point at which he really annoyed me. He asked me if I was pissed off at having to see Paedo, or everybody else. I responded by telling him that both troubled me. He then went on to enquire as to whether there was “any value” in my mother encouraging me to see the non-Paedo members of the family.

I pointed out that I had nothing in common with them and could not see what benefit having some sort of relationship with any of them would have. “Of course,” I acknowledged, “whilst my view is that family is mere genetics, my mother’s is that blood is thicker than water.”

“I think that’s the point,” he said.

I’m sorry, but what the fuck? Even if there was value in the pursuit, even if there genuinely was, it’s fucking irrelevant because Paedo is there anyway.

I made some noise about not existing to keep my mother happy, and told him that the reality is that my mother is a hypocrite because she spends half her life slagging the McFauls off. I bitch about them here and to A, for example, but I generally avoid unsolicited criticism of them in front of my mother.

C responded by reminding me that my mother was also traumatised (due, of course, to her experiences of long-term domestic violence). So that makes it alright for her to force me to live through my traumas, or for her to be have hypocritically? How does that work?

To be fair to C, I’m paraphrasing considerably here because of my poor memory. I eventually conceded that although I fail to see the point of a relationship with most members of my family, I was willing to continue to have one of some description or another because it pleases my mother. “However,” I said, “I still don’t think it reasonable to have to face him.”

The stupid but inevitable question of whether I could see them without him was raised, but the answer is pretty definitively ‘no’.

I’m not sure what I had been looking for in discussing this with C. Was I looking for him to forbid me from going? So that the reinforcement of the earlier opinions that I should avoid Paedo due to the psychotic symptoms he has induced re-emphasised to me how dangerous it was.

Whatever the case, I also pointed out that this trip would see my first encounter with Sean, Marcus’ baby brother, who is named after Paedo. I told C that I was scared that I would react badly to the faultless child because he represents an honour bestowed upon Paedo. He, to my considerable irritation, proceeded to point out to me that I had not reacted badly to Marcus, despite my general dislike for children.

“Marcus isn’t named after the man who sexually abused me,” I seethed through gritted teeth.

“No, but you told me that the baby is known by a shortened form of your uncle’s name,” he pointed out [if Paedo is James, the baby is Jim]. “Isn’t that the case?”

This was correct, but I figured at the time that it would make no difference to my reaction. However, it turned out that C was pretty much right; I definitely saw the kid as being the diminutive of his name, rather than as his full, Paedo-related title. It’s funny how much difference a few little letters make, even if the symbolism is the same.

Anyhow, C enquired as to whether I would hold the kid. I told him that, if past experience was anything to go by, I’d have it pushed onto with or without my consent. I have to say this has always made me feel slightly uncomfortable, but it happens and you deal with it accordingly.

“So I’ll survive,” I shrugged.

He smiled wryly, and said, at which point I wanted to smash his face in, that I might enjoy holding the kid.

I told him that I did not share his apparent optimism, and decided that that angle of conversation needed to desist. I confessed to feeling guilty about slagging off my mother, and told him I had a little anecdote.

The previous evening I had been in the shower at my mother’s house and had seen a lot of little shower gels and whatnot that she’s picked up from hotels. This reminded me that she had collected a bunch of these things for me a few weeks previously, but then had accidentally left a bag full of them in a coffee shop whilst out with her friend. Upon realisation of this, my mother phoned the shop in question, got them to hold the bag for her, and went and retrieved it for me.

I was disgusted that regaling this tale to C make my voice break because, as I said, “it’s the little things that count.” I was advised that just because my mother has not always been the most validating figure in my life, it does not mean that she does not love me very much.

Hmm. So he reads my mother’s mind now too, does he? She who he has never even met? Before he had cause to irritate me – or, more accurately, before I actually fucking cried – I changed the subject.

Don’t ask me how but I ended up telling him how laziness had dictated that I’d been taking a reduced dose of Seroquel for about a week, and had only the night before resumed taking my normal dose of 400mg. When I started to space out shortly after this, he seemed slightly concerned initially but I protested that it was probably a drug hangover.

“Is that normal with this medication?” he asked, and I confirmed that it was.

He looked dubious, then admitted if there wasn’t more to my daze.

“Maybe my mind has decided to dissociate this whole sorry day. I do hope so.”

This led to discussion of dissociation in general, though it was kind of brief and the content is consigned to history as I don’t remember it. What did happen was that the topic naturally progressed to a discussion of identity and a revision of the bollocks of the previous week about (a) a possible over identification with mentalism on my part (something that I continue to dispute) and (b) a fear of intimacy on my part (something that I am willing to acknowledge).

He banged on for a bit again about how much investment I have in engaging with other mentalists online. “They’re very real, don’t get me wrong,” he told me, “but as I’ve said previously, it’s almost like you’re looking to have relationships that exist only at arms’ length. Real and meaningful, yes – but different.”

This made me laugh a bit, which confused him. I clarified by saying that I was laughing as some sort of stupid response to sadness because “even online relationships have the power to hurt you very greatly.”

“Why?” he queried, seemingly slightly concerned. “Has something happened?”

I told him of the circumstances that led to this post, and advised on how I responded to it.

I was astonished when he started – gently, in fairness, but still infuriatingly – questioning if I had been behaving in a fashion that reasonably precipitated this fallout.

I denied this most vehemently. So someone who’s opinion I had otherwise respected decided they think I’m a shit writer who’s self-obsessed. That’s unfortunate, but other people’s opinions of me are only things that I can control within reason. If I was being a complete bitch, that’s obviously something for which I am responsible. If I was merely doing the same things that I have always been doing, as in this case, someone’s changed view of me is not something I caused or can change.

I told him so, but wouldn’t let the fuck up. He went back to all the wank with Mr Director-Person, my former colleagues, la la la. I wanted to rearrange his face. What’s especially galling is that C fucking encouraged my original correspondence with Mr D-P, and now he goes about accusing me of fucking aggression?

Of course, my attempts to defend myself were seen as evidence of my aggression. I find this circumstance grossly unfair. Are there times when I’m aggressive? Yes, of course there are. That, I am all but certain, applies to us all at times. Am I more so than others? Possibly, yes, but I really don’t get his fixation with the issue. It’s not that bad, and generally there is at least some (and usually more than just ‘some’) justification for such a reaction. But C seems obsessed with it, insofar as any psychotherapist is ever obsessed with anything that applies to their clients. I just don’t get it.

Rather than continue defending myself and apparently prove his point in doing so, I shut the fuck up. I glanced about me, at his desk, his bookcase, filing cabinet, yadda yadda. Eventually my eyes returned to his desk, where I was interested to note the presence of his iPhone. I noted with smug satisfaction that it was a 3G or 3GS, whereas I now have an iPhone 4.

Silence ensued for a minute or two, when he broke into my thoughts.

“What’s going through your mind?” he asked. “You’re staring into space there.”

“No I’m not,” I stated grandiosely. “I’m looking at your iPhone and thinking, ‘fuck you, I’ve got an iPhone 4 now’. Hahaha!”

His face developed into an enigmatic sort of expression. Jealousy? Yes, I think so, but also bafflement. It was vaguely amusing to observe.

Eventually, he asked if I had really been thinking that.

“Yes,” I confirmed, “why wouldn’t I have been?”

“So, you have a sense of triumphalism – again – about this.”

Jesus fucking Christ.  I mean, JESUS CHRIST!!!!! Is there anything, anything at all, that does not have an ulterior psychological motive?! What the fuck?! Everyone who has got a fucking iPhone 4 is a smug, self-satisfied twat. Why am I such a fucking guinea pig-like example to him of supposedly flawed psychology, when the reality is that in some ways I am just as fucking ordinary as anybody fucking else?

I responded to his insult with a redacted and calmer version of the preceding paragraph.

“Again, were you really thinking that?” he pressed on. “During that pause you looked upset, not pleased or smug or anything like that.”

I shrugged and proceeded to ignore him, instigating yet another silence.

Eventually, I cautiously began to tell him that it seemed obvious to me from his continual harping on my alleged aggression that he thought I was a belligerent bitch of Satan and that he hated me. This was perhaps exacerbated by a newly acquired submissive, almost child-like stance on my part. Plus some evident upset at these possibilities. Just a little of that. Yeah. Right.

His reaction was extremely interesting to me. He seemed taken aback by my assertion that I believed that he hated me – though I am certain I have postulated the idea to him in the past – and he took a few minutes to think about it. Thanks for boosting my confidence there, C.

Eventually he entered into a rather epic soliloquy about the issue. He talked for quite a while, but the long and the short of it was that I have many, many different facets to me, of which assertiveness (as he had now renamed it) was only one. “If you were always like that, well yes – it would be very hard to like you. But you’re not, so…[here he clearly realised he was teetering on a dangerous line]…so, well, again – you have many more sides to you than just that. I don’t think that defines you by any means.”

“OK,” I responded, meekly and unconvinced.

He sat looking at me intently, his chin in his right hand, his index finger crossing his mouth at a diagonal angle. He always does this when he is considering something intensely. I wonder if he is even aware of this behaviour.

I avoided his gaze and stared at my shoes, but his eyes bored into me, and eventually he spoke.

He said, very slowly and very definitely, “there’s more to this, isn’t there?”

Such a simple statement, but so laden with deep connotations that someone outside the therapeutic dyad would surely struggle to understand.

I pretended to think about it, the operative word there being ‘pretended’. Of course there’s more to it, and really it surprises me that he’s only worked out the magnitude of it.

“Maybe,” I admitted, quietly.

And so the immortal line of, “we’re going to have to leave it there,” came to pass – but there was a second part to the quotation this time. “We’re going to have to look into this in much more detail. You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded and left, perhaps ostentatiously hurriedly. I sat in Disraeli, my car, for a long time, hugging the steering wheel. Thinking, contemplating, ruminating, musing.

This all sounds very cryptic, but of course there was an unspoken understanding between C and me. In essence, he’s worked out that issues of transference in our relationship are not just confined to attachment. It runs very much deeper than that. I’ve been fairly open on this blog on the issue in the past and I don’t want to repeat myself because it fucking hurts like hell to do so. I don’t want to face it either myself or with him. I want it TO GO AWAY.

It’s difficult because, despite some of the twatty things he says and my anger at same, overall I am glad to report that I have a good therapeutic relationship, and one that I think is effective. I also recognise transference as an inevitable side effect of that, demonstrative of the fact that the therapy is actually working to some extent. The difficulty in this case is that I am in the throes of this transferential obsession and being discharged, before we will ever be able to properly address the issue. Perhaps I am at fault because I never brought up the matter in terms of its intensity before, though the word ‘transference’ is bandied about quite a lot in our sessions. But, as any of you who’ve been there will appreciate, facing it head-on is a matter of profound difficulty.

On the issue of the end of therapy, and because I want to avoid discussing this even more, Mr Director-Person has still failed to respond to my most recent correspondence. I have therefore taken the liberty of writing back to him, a copy of the previous letter enclosed, asking for his response as a matter of urgency, though I was quite nice about it. I did, however, hear from his Assistant Director, as regards the personality disorder steering group that the Trust is developing. The letter was official but pleasant and stated that, whilst the development of their PD services are in their infancy at present, they would be glad to have my input and will be in touch again as things progress. If C thinks he’s seen my aggression, he can think again They don’t know what they’ve let themselves in for!

NB. Please forgive the probably-multifarious amount of spelling, syntax, formatting and grammar errors in this post. I’ve been writing it for about 40 years and am sick looking at it, so am just going to publish it without adequate – indeed, any – proof-reading.  Sorries.

Anyway, I don’t know why but I wanted to write something.  I suppose I worry constantly that if I allow myself to avoid posting for a few days, I’ll fall into a rut of utter insouciance towards writing.  I’ve invested so much time and effort into this blog*, and I only want to discontinue writing when I actively choose to do so – which will not, I hope, be for many years.  However, I am intimately acquainted with the tenacious lure and power of inertia, and I do fear giving myself even so much as a few days’ break from writing will lead to a de facto dead blog.  I’m probably over-reacting, but I fear it considerably, and the thought makes me tearful and desperately sad.  How can one be so attached to a website?!

[ * I worked out today that over the 181 one published posts (before this one, which is 182), I have written in the region of 700,000 words.  I'm trying to get a plug-in to measure the figure exactly, but as a rough guide, there you have it.]

So, bearing in mind my fear of an apathetic fall from whatever low level of grace I may or may not be occupying, I’m going to publish the following pile of wank, which I wrote last Tuesday evening in the wake of the C session.  I was trying to articulate the exact nature of my misery, and while it’s drivelsome bullshit, I think it does grasp that reasonably well.  To be honest, it probably describes my current mood quite well too.

Alas.

I am not in the frame of mind to write anything here, but maybe that’s exactly why I need to do so.  Perhaps I need to articulate these so-called feelings that pervade my sorry consciousness (oops, did/does that sound like wallowing? ) I’ve had a strange day.  I saw C this morning – specifics to follow – which has set me up for a weird week; as I normally see him on Thursdays, I’m going about thinking that tomorrow’s Friday, and that A will be there for the weekend.  Since it’s not, the rest of the week stretches out, seemingly infinite in its loneliness. C has, I think, hit upon something I have been trying desperately to hide from him.  I don’t want to discuss it right now because it’s a sensitive issue, and in any case I might be mistaken in my reading of what he thinks (I don’t think I am, but then I suppose I wouldn’t think it if I did think I was wrong, would I..?  Hmm).  I may or may not be more forthcoming in my review of this session, but whatever the case, the matter reminds me yet again of how imminent the separation is (as Tossface Mr D-P still hasn’t bothered to respond to my recent ramblings) and how invested in therapy – in C – I am.  I mean, I already know this – I have done for a very long time – but until relatively recently I could box it up and store it away in some far-flung, virtually inaccessible area of my brain.  That fails to work nowadays, with this severance looming in the air.

So.  I feel rejected.  I feel lonely, yet simultaneously I feel the need to hide away from the world.  I feel forgotten and I feel cheated.  I feel desolate, sad, and depressed.  Tears prick my dissenting, hateful eyeballs, and I feel my bottom lip quivering in a threatening, child-like fashion that I have not felt (at least with this strength) for quite some time…well, apart from the last time I saw C, that is. I still think ‘grief’ is a good word.  Pre-emptive grief, but grief nevertheless.  I do not pretend to understand the horror of what living with the impending death of a loved one with a terminal illness (and I hope I’m not disrespecting anyone in saying this – many apologies if so), but this feels like the closest I’ve ever been to that situation.

Friendships often taper off in my experience, and whilst you may look back on them and regret not making more of an effort to sustain them or whatever, you’re not generally faced with the abject grief that an instantaneous dissolution of your relationship would bring.  The ending of some romantic relationships may be more sudden and hurtful, I suppose, but I still find myself thinking that this feels to me more akin to losing someone important to death.  Perhaps it is because I am fixated with death.  Perhaps I am just a histrionic bitch.  I don’t know.

Anyway.  That was pointless.  I’m always told I should put my “emotions” into words, rather than uttering an allegedly meaningless sentence such as, “I’m pissed off,” but then everyone knows how I’m tortured over the forthcoming end of my relationship with C.  How many dozens of thousands of words have I written on it?  Enough, that’s for sure.

So, back to the week before then, the week before I became ill.  Regular readers may recall that the session I had the week before 17 June was a meeting characterised by (my) hostility and, in his words, acrimony.  Unsurprisingly, that informed at least part of what we talked about in this session.

C was running late again, but not so much that it ate in any way into our session, as it had once previously done.  I ran into him in the carpark and walked into the shithole building along with him.  The poor sod was bowed down by his briefcase, a coat, some other thingy-ma-bobber and his little packed lunch.  For some utterly ridiculous reason, I found this image (particularly of him clutching his lunch) to be rather sweet and charming, and I felt a sudden rush of maternalism for him, longing as I did to ruffle his fluffy (if receding) hair.

He left me briefly in the waiting room whilst he went to get himself together, but he was only gone a few minutes before he returned to escort me to his office.  As we sat down he started coughing, and was clearly a little hoarse.  He apologised – yes, C, because it’s your fault you’re sick – but to be honest it didn’t impact much on my ability to understand him.  Indeed, it further fuelled my pathetic pseudo-parentalism for him, and I wanted to wrap him in a blanket and take care of him.  I could see myself handing him hot, steaming mugs of Lemsip and gently spoon-feeding him a soothing concoction of honey, glycerine and lemon.*

What the sodding hell is this about?  How can I feel such silly maternal feelings for someone who is (admittedly not that much) older than me, especially when I don’t feel maternal feelings for others, particularly children?  I’m used to issues of attachment and transference in therapy – all too well, and all too hatefully – and I’m even used to the idea of wanting to protect C from certain things.  This whole mother-like behaviour is odd, though.

Anyhow, the brief salutations over, I took a deep breath and and reached into my handbag for something I had brought with me.  It wasn’t an extract of this blog or something of that ilk, like previous “I brought this to therapy” items have usually been.  It was a silly little gift I’d made for him.

Uh-oh!  Taking presents for the therapist is a dangerous sign of deep intensity, no?  And they’re not allowed to accept them, right?  I don’t know, but all it was was this:

It is a little white flag that I’d made out of a bit of paper and wire, with a sad face and the word ‘sorry’ ensconced across the front.  I waved it at him, briefly explained what it was (thus illustrating how crap it must have been), apologised for my behaviour the previous week and finally pushed it across the table to him.  I watched carefully for his reaction.

I was gratified and even quite touched to see his face break into a broad smile as he looked at the silly little thing.  He actually seemed a little speechless and taken aback, though apparently in a good way as he sat there doing not-very-much other smiling for a bit.  He has perfectly shaped teeth.  Not two fangs on each side like I do.

When he finally looked back at me, I returned his smile rather sheepishly and apologised once more for being a twat.

The inevitable question came up as to why I felt the construction of the ‘flag’ was necessary.  I told him that I felt bad for how I had behaved in the previous session and wanted to make amends.

“Not that some crappy thing like that compensates,” I said, “but I wanted to do something, something other than simply offering some bland apology.”

We discussed what had enraged me the previous week for a while.  It had mainly been due to the fact that he had said that I’d pronounced the almost-imminent cessation of our relationship to be ‘tragic’, which is not what I had said.  I don’t think it was unreasonable for me to have pointed this out to him, but slabbering and bitching and ranting at him for 50 minutes was a massive over-reaction.

I told him so, and he enquired as to how I had felt after the last session.  He is very well aware that I post-mortem things absolutely to death, and am wont to hang on to words he says in session, questioning their meaning and mentally debating the nature of our relationship.

The thing was, although I did feel guilty about how I’d behaved, it wasn’t as bad as it really should have been.  If someone had spoken to me the way I spoke to him, I would have created a death list with them in the top ten positions**, so I really should have been berating myself all week.  As it was, I felt more sorry for him than actively conscience-stricken.

“It’s all very well to rationalise things like these by saying that you chose this job, and that things like this inevitably come up,” I told him, shrugging,  ”and I know you’re trained to deal with clients’ anger and whatnot.  But even with all that said and understood, you’re still human – and I actually thought that you looked hurt at one point.  It wasn’t fair that I made that happen.  So I’m sorry.”

He thought for a minute, scrunching up his face in that idiosyncratic way that he always does whilst musing, then replied with something along the lines of there being a necessity for me to bring anger to therapy if, indeed, I was angry with him.  ”You’ve done it before,” he pointed out.

“Hmm.  I suppose last week wasn’t quite as bad as the time I called you a ‘sadistic headfucker‘.  I’m still sorry about that.”  I shifted uncomfortably at the recollection, particularly as he nodded to denote the fact that he too clearly remembered the incident in question.

“Well, anyway,” he said, “I checked my notes, and no – you didn’t use the word ‘tragic’ in the way that I said you did.”

“Maybe not, but I still completely over-reacted.”

He looked at me enigmatically.

“What I said was that it was ‘sad’, that the forthcoming severance of this relationship was ‘sad’,” I recalled.  ”And I think I may have also said that I felt a sense of loss.  That I feel a sense of loss.  That I think it is sad.  So there you go, I admit it.”

I do hate my treacherous fucking body sometimes; my voice broke and my lip quivered as I spoke the sorry words.  As he started to state the obvious by saying, “now you’re upset,” I waved my arms at him in a halting gesture and said, “no.  Please don’t go there, C.  Allow me to retain whatever small semblance of dignity I have left.”

“You don’t think crying or showing emotion is dignified,” he wistfully and completely pointlessly added.  However, he then smiled gently and sym-(or em-)pathetically, and was good enough to honour my request to desist from proceeding with that particular conversation.

Instead, he started talking about how I have a conflicted or ambiguous view of him at times.  I don’t remember all he said in this vein, but I tried to refute the idea that I sometimes regard him pretty negatively.  I mean, yes – I get irritated, even angry, with him at times, but as I said to him, that happens in all interpersonal relationships.  It doesn’t mean that the way in which I view him is not generally positive.

“Nevertheless,” he insisted, “those issues of anger, aggression – whether at me or whoever – they are very real, aren’t they?”

I made some noise questioning whether he thought I was always like that.

“Oh no, of course not,” he responded assuredly.  ”If you were normally angry or aggressive you wouldn’t be able to do this work at all, so that’s not the case.  On the flip side, when these issues arise between us, we need to examine them together, so of course it’s necessary that you bring them here.  But I do wonder if, when you feel you’re not being heard or whatever, you don’t maybe behave a little too assertively…which could possibly alienate you from people.”

“If you’re talking about Mr Director-Person,” I responded, raising an eyebrow, “then I believe that I have behaved in an exemplary fashion.”

He said that it wasn’t just Mr D-P of whom he had been thinking, but that he was one such example.  Another, to my considerable surprise, had been my engagement with my manager and the Horse regarding my absence from work.  Before I could contest that point, however, C queried as to why I felt that my correspondence with Mr D-P had been ‘exemplary’.  He (non-accusingly) asked if I felt that my protests were generally acceptable.  (I do, for what it’s worth).

I told him that this is an attitude that has been fostered in my character.  Apparently that was a cryptic remark (?!), so I proceeded to tell him that my mother, A, and a number of friends throughout my life have always spurred me on to defend myself to the hilt, particularly when I’ve been fucked over in some fashion, as with the NHbastardingS.

“With specific reference to Mr D-P,” I continued, “my mother doesn’t feel I’ve been harsh enough.  A helped me draft the most recent letter, so he clearly approves.  My friends seemed to think my correspondence has been reasonable.”

He seemed cynical at this, but let it be.  He asked of which friends I was speaking, and I confirmed that I was, generally, referring to those of you that I know from this blog and from Twitter.

“Your blog means a lot to you,” he stated.

“Yes,” I acknowledged, “it’s not some work of art, but it’s still my pride and joy.”

This led to a frustrating but ultimately intriguing conversation about intimacy.  C accepts that online friendships are fulfilling and meaningful and very much real, but he was very keen to point out that they’re ‘different’ to ones formed in “real” life.  The blog is of course wont to encourage contact online rather than in the physical world, especially as it’s primarily anonymous.

He said, “how often do you correspond with your ‘real life’ friends?”

I muttered something deliberately incoherent, but was forced upon his pressing of the issue to admit that my contact with them is pretty infrequent.  He then enquired as to how often I ‘speak’ to some of my online friends, and I told him that in many cases that contact was daily.

I went to justify this (as if I need to justify it!) on the grounds that my online friends understand what it’s like to be mental – in most (not all) cases, that’s how I’ve met them.  At this juncture I heard utterances about over-identification with my mental illnesses, which given this was perhaps somewhat timely.

I ignored the rather annoying accusation and told C that another issue was that because I can contact so many people through Twitter and Facebastard, it means easy, enjoyable, and ergo completely genuine correspondence with them.  Contacting  people like Daniel or Brian involves using the phone.  I shuddered at the thought and provided him with a redacted, auditory version of this post.

Much analysis ensured.  When I was unable to express myself why I am so bloody terrified of the phone, he proffered the view that this absolutely exemplified my fear of intimacy; typing on a computer screen is less interpersonal than actually speaking to someone, apparently (for what it’s worth, I do not concur).  I protested that I am not that bad with people in person, pointing out that I’ve met two people I know from Twitter in person and am due to meet a number more (you know who you are!).  I asked how, therefore, his contention could be accurate.

He responded by asking how much I go out and see people as a general rule.  How do I interact with people other than, say, A and my mother?  Can I interact with people other than A and my my mother, especially if one of those two is not present?

I looked at the floor, my silence confirming his suspicions that the answers to his questions were ‘hardly at all’, ‘badly’ and ‘no’ respectively (the latter is not universally true, but it is in the majority of cases.  Alas).

He talked on for a while more about my alleged fear of intimacy.  I have come, unwittingly, to equate it as a negative thing as a result of experiences with Paedo, V and all the others who have betrayed me over the years.  He accepted that I probably don’t consciously fear it, and said that I probably don’t mean to “keep people at arms length – or even to push them away at times”, and indeed he said that he thinks part of me actively yearns for intimate personal contact.  However, to completely paraphrase him, my reactions to intimate situations and relationships are maladaptive and ultimately self-defeating.

He even went on to remind me that I totally withdraw into myself for days on end, not contacting anyone I know (even my mother) in any way.  ”The only exceptions,” he noted, “are your friends on the internet.”  [He threw in a little joke here that I could apologise to anyone I'd failed to contact as I should have by sending them a white flag.  I laughed, but told him that he alone was to be the recipient of such a thing.]

I’m making him sound really, really dickish, but all this was conveyed much more sensitively than I have portrayed it here (though it still perturbed me somewhat, of which more in the next post).  He went on to briefly allude to the inherent intimacy of the therapeutic relationship, and said that whilst he felt that we did work together, that I was  holding him too at arms’ length.

“You’re usually so very careful to avoid showing vulnerability or emotion in front of me, though you have done it at times,” C said, looking me in the eye when I would allow him to do so.  ”You’re protecting yourself, no doubt, but in doing so issues are sometimes avoided, and you try to keep things more abstract or business-like than I think you really want them to be.”

The problem is, not that I said this to him, that things can never be what I want them to be – but, again, that is something to be further explored in a future post.

I don’t remember exactly what gave rise to it, but in some sort of response to all this crap, I eventually asked if he felt that my transferential issues towards him were represented more greatly by aggression or by fear of intimacy.

He said that he felt the two were intrinsically related, but added that his view of this was probably different to mine.

“How so?” I asked, deliberately staring him right in the face.

“I think that you perhaps understand transference [he pronounced it 'tras-fer-ENCE' rather than 'trans-FER-ence' as I do] in terms of, ‘I’m angry at my father or my uncle, so I project that onto C,’ would that be right?”

“Pretty much, I suppose, yes.”

“Well, I’m not saying those aren’t issues, but I see it more in terms of your anger towards yourself, and as far as these intimacy issues go, in terms of your inability to empathise with yourself.”

This was the end of the session, so I didn’t really get a chance to express my reaction to this hypothesis – I just sat there for the last minute or two reflecting upon what he had just said.  I’d never really considered things in that way before, but now that C had said it, it seemed absolutely blindingly obvious.  I mean – I think that some of the transferential reactions to him are related to others that are or have been (however tenuously) in my life – but yes, he’s the perfect way to punish and reject my own self without actually doing so, isn’t he?

Anyhow, again, I’ve made him sound like a twat in what I’ve written here, but really he wasn’t.  I felt that it was a productive, and co-operative session, and we parted on warm terms, with me advising him to get hold of some Lemsip.  I still wanted to mother him, you see.

[* Point of hilarity.  I originally mistyped this as nitro-glycerine.  Perhaps the week previous to this that would have been my preferred option!** ]
[** That was a joke, GCHQ / MI5 / Big Brother / whatever other thought police may be reading this.]

I have never been, and will never be, an optimist nor anything other than passionately cynical, and whilst I make no apology for that, I can see that it may be seen as self-defeating and narcissistic – indeed, it may actually be self-defeating and narcissistic.  Still, I don’t think cynicism and pessimism are all that characterise my approaches to therapy, the psychological pain that I often find myself in and indeed the writing of this blog.

Although I’ve been in therapy for half my life, on and off, I believe that a strong relationship between client and therapist is the only way satisfactory results can be achieved from the process.  My current therapeutic relationship is the first one in which a proper rapport and a strong alliance has truly developed, and it is just about the best I could have asked for; whether it’s been in the past that I haven’t been ready to confront the realities of what’s led me to therapy, or whether it simply was about personalities alone, I don’t know.  Either way, it didn’t work until now.

Do I believe that therapy with C has helped me?  I do.  ’Only’ subtly perhaps, but yes, I do.  For one, although I still have strong self-harm urges at times, I haven’t acted on them since January.  I also think my outlook is perhaps less miserable than once it was (though as I say, it will never be wholly positive, nor would I want it to be) and I think that, very slowly, I am progressing to a point where I am able to develop some sort of sense of empathy for others, even if that’s still a little at arms length.  I even think there’s a tiny, tiny part of me that has started trying to empathise with myself, though of course I am still usually in some conflict about this.

Do I believe C can cure me?  Absolutely not.  I don’t believe that anyone can cure me.  Do I believe that C can help me?  Absolutely I do.  I believe that together we can confront the demons that pervade my mind, explore them, resolve them and ultimately learn to manage them through greater self-understanding.  Whilst therapy with C has been one of the most painful processes I’ve been through, it has also given me hope, and I do believe that such treatment can lead to some form of psychic healing.

Or rather it did give me hope, until we walked into the brick wall of the Trust putting a cap on the process come the end of August.  Thus the question becomes, “do I believe C could help me, were he allowed?”  Yes, I do – but he and I are being denied that opportunity.  Perhaps there are others out there that can do it too, but there are no certainties in this game and finding another psychologist with whom I click in a fashion even approximating this could take a very, very long time.

I think another thing that’s important when considering my ‘wallowing’ is that I am only just beginning to discover the extent of my history.  I was always sort of peripherally aware that there was more to my experiences of child sexual abuse, for example, than the one rape that I always clearly remembered, but it wasn’t something I ever allowed myself to think about that much – or at least, certainly not consciously.  That’s another way in which therapy has been a force for good; I’m aware of most things now, even if I can’t always recollect specifics, and can begin to piece together some of the ‘whys’ about how my mentalism has developed and persisted as it has.

These realisations and explorations, though, have only come in the last few months; to that end, retraumatisation and ergo further lows, episodes of utter madness and anxieties have become all but inevitable.  I don’t doubt for a second that with the right treatment these obstacles could be overcome, and if I am miserable about my relationship with C ending soon, then that is (at least partly) why.  I don’t know how to cope with being retraumatised – with facing unspeakable acts that I had pixelated out of my head for so many years – on my own, just like I didn’t know how to cope with the trauma when it happened on my own, other than to dissociate it (which is hardly a long-term solution).  I don’t know how to heal on my own.  I would love to, but I don’t know how.  I’d not be in the position I am if I did.

As for being diagnosis-obsessed, well – a defence of diagnoses is a whole other post, and I will get to that one of these days.  However, I’ll say here that I do not believe myself obsessed at all.  I do, having said that, consider that an accurate diagnosis can lead to the right treatment, and furthermore that it gives one a frame of reference in which to fit their symptoms; some nebulous ‘I have some symptoms of what you might call mental illness’ sort of thing just wouldn’t work for me.  Now don’t get me wrong; treatment of the symptoms is what matters in any disorder, physical, mental, or some hybrid of the two.  All I am saying is that conceptualising such symptoms into treatable, defined boxes does not seem to me to be the evil some others purport it to be.

Anyway.  I’m not really sure why I wrote this.  Am I unconsciously looking for affirmation, or am I just providing a self-defence?  Who knows.  At the end of the day I write Confessions for my own records and self-exploration, and I felt compelled to compose this, so there you have it.  I do feel sad that I am considered in such a negative light by some people, but at the end of the day, everyone is absolutely entitled to their views – and I have to be true to mine, too.

Admittedly, I went in in a bad mood to begin with. I’d actually been in a good one hitherto, thanks to waking up to this lovely comment from Seaneen (and one already made by Nick, to which I alluded at the end of that post). I’m always thrilled when people compliment my writing; although the blog is still primarily for my own benefit…well, if it’s considered to be done well by others, then that’s a very worthwhile, confidence-boosting bonus. So yes, I was in quite a decent mood, and the sun was shining, and I thought that this confluence of relative non-shitness might lend itself to actually covering something useful with C for the first time in about 300 years. Although, having said that, when I’ve been in a good mood in the past I tend to go in, ramble on a little, then seduce him into a discourse of academic psychology and intellectualism. But anyway…

I arrived at the hospital, and was outraged to see a car in ‘my’ parking space. Who the sodding hell did they think they were? I park in the same space each week. In fact, I have a ritual. I drive to the back of the carpark, turn, drive forward into the space, adjust steering until I am exactly six inches from both right and left extremities of the space, and finally reverse/go forward until I’m right in the middle relative to the front and back of the space. And it has to be that space.

Were I not so utterly in love with my little car, I would have used Him to ram the other car of unwitting evil out of the space. How very dare it steal my space?!!

(A tells me that I have to write a post about my apparent OCD-ish behaviour. Another foible that he finds consistently amusing is the fact that I will not change the radio station in the car, even if the most offensive thing I’ve ever heard is playing, unless he’s with me).

So I had to take another space – one that actually brought me a good deal closer to C’s building – but I felt soulless and destroyed inside. I cursed myself for having failed to bring Diazepam with me. And then my nose started bleeding, as if symbolically voicing its own displeasure at the sorry circumstances in which it found itself.

I had no tissues with me, so holding my nose, I dashed into the building. Before I reached the toilets, however, I almost literally ran into C. This was about 9.20am, which freaked me out because C does not exist at 9.20am. He only starts existing at 9.30am when our appointments commence.

We exchanged awkward pleasantries, and I ran to hide in the toilet, blood trickling its surreptitious way out of my nostril. I plugged it up with bog roll (unused, just in case you were wondering), and stood behind the door, listening, waiting, for him to go past so as I didn’t have to encounter him outside session-time again.

How ridiculous is this? Seriously. How can someone so obsessed with and attached to her psychotherapist be thoroughly freaked out by seeing him outside of the allocated fifty minutes, especially when it’s mere seconds beforehand? There have been times when I’ve dreamt of bumping into him in a pub, a shop, I even half-hoped I’d see him at the recent Metallica gig at which we were both in attendance. If that had actually happened, though, it would appear that I’d have gone completely doolally. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Anyway, having heard someone that I assumed was him walk past the door, I sneaked back out to the waiting room, like some silly schoolgirl bunking off class. Eventually he emerged again, this time to escort me to that week’s 50 minute doom.

It commenced in the usual silly way. We acknowledged each other. I even asked him how he was, something I haven’t done in eons. Then there was silence. He glanced at me. Our eyes met. He nodded. I made some not unfavourable facial gesture in response, and looked away.

And the silence continued.

And continued.

And continued.

Eventually, he said something along the lines of, “where would you like to begin?”, to which I responded with resigned laughter.

C replied by saying that things seemed to be frequently commencing in this silent fashion. No shit there, Sherlock. 10 out of 10 for observation.

I think he then said something to the effect that he wondered if we could use ‘the time remaining’ to tackle some of the issues that were paramount in my mind.

Thanks, C. Rub it in. Just rub it right in. Pour a barrel of salty piss right into my gaping, agonising wound. Go ahead and remind me that said wound is going to be open and raw for some time – possibly forever.

“But you’re trying to protect yourself, aren’t you?” he said. “So you’re finding it difficult to communicate these things.”

Did I shrug at this? I think I did. Whatever the case, my response was non-committal.

“What about the sexual abuse..?” he asked tentatively, tailing off.

The mention of this most un-amusing of subjects somehow did amuse me – the very notion that I would discuss this more when I am being consigned to the dark recesses of rubbish bin of psychotherapy was tragically funny. I eventually said, honestly but reluctantly, “I don’t think I’m going to talk about that anymore.”

It seemed ‘tragically funny’ then, but it doesn’t now as I sit here writing this review. It fills me with a deep, foreboding, unforgiving sort of sadness, that I can actually feel physically as well as psychologically. It feels almost like a part of me – a physical part, no less – is being surgically removed without an anaesthetic. A huge gap or a hole somewhere in my stomach, just clawed out carelessly with a rusty scalpel. It hurts. It hurts. So very, very much.

I have so much I want – need – to address, and nobody seems to care. This leads me to believe that I have always been correct in my resolute belief that I deserved everything negative that has happened to me in my life, including though not limited to the child abuse and my father’s point-blank rejection of me. This proves it, surely. Nobody wants to help me, or pay attention to me – they just want to reject me all over again, so everything that has gone before must have been deserved.

But enough childish, whinging navel-gazing. The whole ‘I won’t discuss the sex abuse with you’ led to the typical bullshit discussion about the end of therapy, the one I am perpetually desperate to avoid. I can’t address it without fighting tears, and I don’t want to give C the satisfaction of seeing me cry over it.

Instead, I heard myself telling him how annoyed I had been when he last week accused me of saying (the week before that) that the process coming to an end was ‘tragic’. I actually went on a massive rant about this, although I did try to do so whilst not attacking him directly. In retrospect, ranting about this was completely bloody stupid as my fury was ignited over one tiny word.

“Tragic,” I declared, perhaps a little pompously, “denotes something big. The Cumbrian shootings were tragic. The 2004 tsunami was tragic. The end of a relationship between two people – out of over six billion people on this planet – is not tragic.”

“I looked in my notes after you left last week,” he replied. “They said you said it was ‘sad’.”

“Sad! Yes, I said it was ‘sad’ alright. I did not say that it was ‘tragic’. Do admit that I did not say it was ‘tragic’?”

“I suppose so..,” he replied, apparently rather bewildered at my passion over this almost meaningless semantic issue. “You seem to have an air of triumphalism in that, though, and I’m wondering why it’s such a big deal to you?”

Triumphalism. I had accused him of the same here in my write-up of last week’s session, so rather than help him explore his question, I told him so.

Why did I say that, readers? Why?! I accepted myself that I was probably over-reacting to the supposedly ‘triumphant’ comment, so why did I have to insult him by telling him of my paranoid thinking?

He looked quite dutifully stunned, and then I think I stated on the ‘mechanistic’ comment he had made.

“I’m grateful to you for saying that,” I started, smiling, “because it led to one of the greatest compliments I’ve yet received about my blog; someone [Nick, referenced above] said that that proved you’d not seen my blog, because apparently no one could say that about my writing.” Carried away by this train of thought, I also started wittering on about Seaneen’s comment, and several others I have received from a surprising number of you lovely people.

C sat there looking at me in utter bafflement. I could almost see the cogs of what the fuck? turning inside his mind.

Eventually he stopped my narcissistic rambling. “So, you’ve been hugely complimented about your blog,” he iterated. “You’ve met nice people through it. Unlike this big, bad, nasty therapist…”

To be honest I’m not sure I realised just how vituperative I had been at that stage. To his continued surprise, I told him that I had “not been having a go at [him].”

I watched his face carefully. He looked…I dunno, ‘wounded’? ‘Torn up’?…and I suddenly felt guilt and self-disgust surge through my veins.

“You’re insulted now,” I murmured, lowering my eyes regretfully. “That really wasn’t my intention.” And it hadn’t been. I still don’t know why The Bitch came out to play with such intensity.

He didn’t respond to that specific comment, but instead said that he felt two things were underlining this negative form of engagement with him. Firstly, it was indubitable that I had a lot of pent-up anger – whether or not it was directed specifically at him, it was coming out aimed at him (all well and good from the analytical point of view, of course), and that it was in fact probably suitable and right that I was bringing it with me and flinging it into the poor sod’s face. Secondly, he opined, I was going on an all-out crusade to avoid talking about my heartbreak (not his word) as regards the cessation of our relationship.

All of this was fair, and my silent response was intended and, I think, taken as confirmation of it. I looked down at the floor. Shadows created by the window-blinds breaking the sunlight danced insouciantly on the carpet. For a few minutes, this strange waltz captured my attention completely.

“Where has your mind wondered to?” C’s voice finally asked, breaking into my distracted consciousness.

I ‘came to’, and told him about the dancing shadow-shapes. He raised an eyebrow curiously but said nothing.

Another silence briefly ensued, which I eventually broke by blurting out, “I want to see the notes you hold on me. Can you just give me them, or do I have to apply in writing?”

He hadn’t been expecting this, and was visibly surprised by the revelation. He admitted that he didn’t know the procedure, but said that he would consult the Head of Department and advise me accordingly at our next meeting.

Inevitably, of course, he wanted to know why I want my notes. Was it simple curiosity?

I said that it was, and advised that I would not just be asking for his notes, but also NewVCB’s and my GP’s.

“I think I’ll request my GP’s since I was about 12,” I mused thoughtfully. “You know, just before I became properly ill.”

Then I chuckled slightly, and added, “yes, 14 years of notes. That’ll really piss them off!”

The utterance of this comment was a serious error on my part. I should have known that C would jump on it and wank on and on and on about it – which of course is exactly what he did. He became convinced that I was only requesting my notes to annoy the various medical professionals with whom I am involved.

This is not true. Is there a certain element of caustic satisfaction from the amount of work that inevitably goes into the preparation of such things? Inevitably there is, yes. But it’s both incidental and innocent; I take such sadistic pleasure out of any such situation, and it has nothing to do with winding the Trust and its employees up. For example, when W – who lives in England – got married, I went to great pains to wrap his (fragile) wedding present to unbreakable standards in preparation for postage. Although it took me about two hours to do this, I took pleasure from the fact that I knew it would take him (or his then-fiancee) similarly long to unwrap it. I told him so, and he found this amusing. It’s just a silly character trait, and I wish C wouldn’t overreact like this.

I became sick of his whinging about this, so said, “look. I know you’re trained to read a lot into every single little thing I bring into this room – I get that, I do. But I swear to you; my primary motivation is not to piss the health service off. I just want to know what my notes say. OK?”

I’m not sure if he believed me, but either way he conveyed his acquiescence through a nod and added, again, that he would look into the procedural issues of the matter for me.

Another brief silence came and went. I don’t recall whether or not he instigated the conversation or if it was me, but in any event, an in-depth discussion developed about my intention to seek out alternative therapy when my time with him comes to an end.

I had been with Lovely GP the day before, hoping that he would act as an advocate against the Trust’s intentions to end my therapy as he had said to my mother he would. I told him, in about as un-detailed terms as you can possibly get, about the abuse and how I felt that therapy had re-traumatised me vis a vis same. After asking if C had the expertise to help ease my traumatised mind – and my affirmation that he had – LGP went on anyway to suggest I saw the Nexus Institute. He made no further reference to ‘making a phonecall’ to make sure the therapy continued, and as such the appointment was only of any use in that he gave me some IBS medication to try.

Anyhow, I told C about LGP’s suggestion, but then sighed. “I fully respect what they do,” I told him, “but regardless of that I have, by association, a long-held negative view of them, even though it isn’t their fault.”

I explained how, when I had seen a therapy assessment woman (at the same hospital in which I see C and NewVCB) when I was about 17 or 18, I had been treated with utter disdain – “nay,” I corrected myself, “contempt” – apparently having been considered as an angsty teenager with no legitimate mental health concerns.

“I made the most oblique of references to having some experience of sexual abuse,” I went on, “and she immediately threw Nexus’ number in my face and all but demanded I get out of her office and stop wasting her time.”

He thinks that the following us my belief: if I end up going to see them, I am accepting and agreeing with her view of me as a time-waster. This hypothesis most likely true. I kept apologising to no one in particular for forming such an unreasonable view of Nexus, but every time I hear of them I remember that woman’s palpable antipathy towards me. I didn’t deserve that.

C proceeded to make some comment about how I’m perpetually derisive of myself. “You often sit over there and say that your wasting my time, or that you should just ‘pull yourself together’ and whatnot. You feel that you were treated badly by that woman, but yet you say these same things about yourself.”

Hmm. I bollocked around this for a bit, claiming that most of my ‘time-wasting’ self-castigations related to times when I sat in C’s presence without saying anything, and this is true. However, there have certainly been plenty of self-directed rants on how my problems are infinitesimal compared to those of some others. I think I finally rationalised my position to him by stating that, whilst in the grand scheme of things my psychological issues don’t really matter, that they were still nonetheless very real to me. “In the midst of my self-hatred, I just lose sight of that sometimes,” I admitted.

We continued talking about future therapy, and I asked him if he’d have any recommendations for private therapists. He responded in the affirmative, stating that they would, however, be primarily be from the analytic school.

“Good,” I responded. “That’s what I’m looking for.”

During the ensuing conversation, it emerged that he was familiar with a group of psychoanalysts that I have also come across. He mentioned one in particular with whom I am familiar, but asked me to bring in my overall short-list to see if he recognised the names.

“Bear in mind,” C cautioned, “that these people are more likely to lean towards traditional analysis.”

“What, like I lie on the couch and babble endlessly, and they never open their mouths?” I checked.

“Hmm…well, any therapist you meet will try his or her best to tailor the therapy towards what’s best for you as an individual, so not necessarily – but still, I reckon you can expect them to be less interactive than you’re used to here. What exactly are you looking for?” he queried.

A curious question coming from someone with a doctorate in psychology to a person with a Wikipedia knowledge of the subject, but then he knows that I am very well informed.

“Analysis-ish,” I replied. “I like your integrative approach. Psychodynamic, but sufficiently bending the rules of that persuasion so as things suit me. I like that you actually respond. I don’t think I’d be completely happy with someone who never said anything, but notwithstanding that I really have much more faith in the more traditional therapeutic approaches. I don’t think that CBT or DBT or things like them are remotely helpful practices, except possibly in the hands of exceptionally skilled practitioners.”

“I think that issue is key,” C stated. “As you’re probably well aware, research consistently shows that, generally, one of the main factors in successful psychotherapy is the relationship between therapist and patient, rather than the type of therapy specifically.”

I did indeed know this, and it has always been one of the key problems in the Trust ending my therapy with C. After all these years – after all these horrible, painful years – I have finally found a psychotherapist with whom I have a proper, workable, trusting and intimate relationship. He is just about the best person I could have asked for. Through our connection – for we do have a connection – good work was being done, and could have continued to be done, had I not had this constant menace of the curtain-down of things hanging over me. Yet such an encouraging prospect is being cruelly and unfairly being stolen. All because some fat, pen-pushing bastard sitting in some overblown office somewhere thinks that C should be driven by fucking time-directed targets and not real, life-changing, meaningful results demonstrating a significant improvement in a patient’s health or well-being. Fuck the health service! What is the point of it being a ‘health service’ when it prioritises statistics over its patients?

I think C saw an opportunity here, perhaps noticing some vulnerability in my stature or body language. He (quite gently, to be fair) brought back up the issue of me ‘fighting’ my feelings of sadness/grief/abandonment/rejection/etc.

Yet again I felt tears prick my eyes, and a lump form in my throat. Why does he want to put me through such pain? Does his ego really need stroking that much? (For what it’s worth, I suppose I do see, objectively speaking, what he’s trying to achieve, and no – it’s not really about his ego. But I can’t bear it, however much I intellectualise it now).

I sensed that the session was nearing its end, so decided I could get away with answering this rather than redirecting it. He wouldn’t have enough time to probe me further.

“Yes, OK, I admit it – I admit it freely – of course it makes me feel sad. How could it not? I don’t like it and I don’t want it. I don’t want it to end, not at this juncture. Yes, I’m sad and yes, it hurts. But I’ve sat here and insulted you in copious measure this morning so I don’t suppose that sense of regret is always entirely evident, is it?”

Of course, armchair-psychologist-Me realises that sitting there insulting him in copious measure that morning made it all the more evident, but I wasn’t feeling at my most intellectual at the time.

“I don’t feel insulted,” he reassured. “Things were rather adversarial for the first 30 or 40 minutes, I think, but no – I don’t feel insulted.”

“‘Adversarial’,” I repeated wistfully. “[submissively] I’m sorry, C. I was in a bad mood when I came in here. Someone parked in my parking space.” I threw him a weak smile at that, which thankfully he returned.

One thing I deliberately kept from him during these whole shenanigans was the fact that I had finally posted the most recent letter to Mr Director-Person the day before (it didn’t go exactly as detailed in the relevant post, but it was close enough). To recap briefly, said letter specifically requests (for the first time) that my treatment with C continue beyond the current allocated time, citing issues of re-traumatisation and the fact that a CPN or social worker – however good they may generally be – are under-qualified to deal with something quite so complex.

I don’t know why I didn’t tell C. Probably because I know Mr Director-Person is going to blab all anyway, and they can laugh together at my pathetic, desperate begging. Still, when I decided to respond to Mr Director-Person’s first stupid and borderline-offensive letter, I vowed to myself that I would see this fight through to the bitter end. And one way or another, we’re approaching that point now.

I just wish part of me didn’t seem so hell-bent on offending C before we get there. He may claim he wasn’t insulted – but I’m not stupid; I could see that he was effected by my words, and in fact I think he was hurt. At the end of the day, I actually think he’s rather fond of me (as I am of him), and listening to a constant barrage of criticism from someone you hate is hard enough, nevermind when it’s from someone you don’t mind. It’s part of his job, I know, but I feel hideously guilty anyway, and have resolved to try and be nice to him this week.

Maybe I’ll even allow him to see some real vulnerability.

So off I went to C, in this sort of weird, caffeine-induced disposition of much oddness. I wouldn’t call it hypomania exactly; I wasn’t in the throes of overwhelming, deliriously beautiful ecstasy, nor anything much approaching it. It was a bizarre cross of, perhaps, minor hypomania, wry- and snideness, let’s-play-games-with-C-ness and mini-fuck-you-ness. Is there a word for that? I don’t know. I can’t think of it. So let’s stick with ‘wry’.

Initially, this ‘wryness’ didn’t really manifest in my interactions with C, unless you consider the silence at the start of the session, now of clockwork predictability, to be game-playing. I don’t think it is; I just never know how to open a session, and he rarely lets me off the hook. Advice, fellow mentalists. What is the decorum in this circumstance? You’d think after knowing C for over a year that I might’ve worked it out, but apparently not. Perhaps the difficulty lies in the material addressed in therapy of late. Coming in, cheerfully intoning the words, “Hi C! Let’s talk about the day when I was six when my uncle stuck his cock in my mouth!” is not something that seems to flow naturally after an initial greeting.

Eventually the silence led to a desultory conversation on how bizarre it is to simply “switch on” for 50 minutes a week. I’ve probably done this to death, but seriously – what an intrinsically false, freakish sort of social situation therapy really is. It’s not at all easy to just vulnerable-ise yourself at the figurative flick of the switch, and yet I berate myself endlessly for my consistent failure to manage it.

In order to kickstart me, I presume, C eventually asked had anything much happened since our last session. In a sense, it had; the meeting with NewVCB the preceding day was something vaguely worthy of note. I told him that, due to my low mood of late, that she had prescribed me a higher dose of the dreaded Venlafaxine and then, indeed, the ‘kickstart’ mechanism swung into gear, and I confessed to him that NewVCB had essentially forbidden me from seeing Paedo.

“Forbidden..?!” he queried suspiciously, as if I had just told him that NewVCB had ordered me to sacrifice fluffy puppies to the Flying Spaghetti Monster for medicinal benefit.

“Well, it certainly sounded like it,” I said, slightly defiantly. “She shook her head vigourously at the suggestion and said that I ‘can’t’ see him because it would be ‘damaging’.” As I quoted her, I used that absurdly ugly gesture with my index and middle fingers that denotes the words are those of someone other than the current speaker. I despise it when other people do that, and have spent many a happy hour fantasising about breaking those supercilious fingers. Why, then, am I allowed to do it myself? I am a walking double standard of hypocrisy.

Anyway, he then asked why it was likely that I would see Paedo anyway. I sneeringly pointed out that Paedo is my ‘closest’ uncle, a fact of which he is well aware.

Pre-empting any response to this, I continued by advising C that my mother had been desirous of a visitation to Paedo and Maisie’s the previous day. I said that I had managed to get out of it, but that I felt as if I was in a very difficult position.

“How did this proposition [ie. visiting their house] make you feel?” C asked.

I um-ed and ah-ed a little; the truth was that I had actually taken with me a print-out of this post on my reactions to the suggestion and my dilemma about whether to go or not. My attitude to the notion of reading the material to him was not at all what I might have expected; it felt supremely weird, and it felt supremely wrong. This is something I’m going to have to write more about in due course, but in brief (disregarding all the competing sides of me in my head), it’s almost as if I am two different people these days (and please no DID references – I’ve dealt with too many recently already!). I have this identity – Pandora, the writer, the online persona, the primary mentalist ‘Me’ on Twitter and Fuckbook – and then you have the ‘real’ one. The boring, ordinary me, who just happens to have a string of psychiatric issues. I am increasingly finding transitioning between the two to be a strange, sometimes difficult, task.

I told him so. “If I read this to you, it’s really like these two worlds – these twains that are never meant to meet – are colliding. It’s making me feel deeply uncomfortable.”

He stared at me unhelpfully. In fairness, I don’t suppose it is possible that he can empathise with something of this nature.

“Well, should I read it or not?” I finally asked, slightly irritably.

He shrugged. “I suppose you have it here, the words are already articulated, so…”

I mulled it over again for a minute or two then took a deep breath and went ahead and read the thing.

I don’t remember exactly how he responded, but for some reason or another I found myself ranting not about Paedo, but about the women connected with the house (to which I shall hencefore refer as Hotel California).

“I hate their tactility, their enthusiasm for non-sensical feminine pursuits,” I spat. “I hate their constant emotional outbursts, whether those are positive or negative. They make me sick.” I shivered at the very thought of it. I went on to tell him about when my not-quite-step-Dad dropped dead suddenly when I was 11 – Maisie and Paedo came to stay at Mum’s (hmm), and I have this overriding memory of Maisie all but begging me to shed tears. I can still feel that sense of bafflement; I feel it so strongly that I could reach out and touch it. Yes, he was dead, and that was very deeply regrettable – but what good was bawling my eyes out going to do? And even if it did serve some purpose, what in the living fuck would be the point of demonstrating my capacity for tears and sadness to others?!

“So…” C began, when I had finally concluded my little anecdote. “It is because of the women, rather than your uncle, that you don’t want to go to {Hotel California}?”

“No. Well, yes. But…well, it’s both, isn’t ‘both’ allowed? And yet…and yet…hmm.” I left the sentence trailing in mid-air, pregnant with a palpable desire to be completed.

He subtly (but obviously, if you understand) probed me to finish what I had started.

“And yet…” I eventually went on, “…well, part of me doesn’t not want to go. Not entirely anyway.”

I hung my head in horror and shame at this admission, but raised my eyes just in time to see him sit forward contemplatively, his brow furrowed.

“Why’s that?” he inevitably asked me.

“Because…because…[almost whispering] because of the children…”

This instantaneously led to the launch of yet another self-directed vituperation of epic proportions.

“I hate children,” I shrieked, “I fucking hate them! I hate the sounds they make, I hate the way their alien-looking little faces srunch up like a deflated football when they scream, I hate the way some parents revere their offspring to the point of an utter lack of consideration for all other human beings in existence. Why the fuck do I concern myself about these ones?”

“You’re angry with yourself for expressing an emotion,” C claimed.

“No I’m not,” I protested, genuinely I think. “I’m angry with myself because I’ve just betrayed everything I’ve ever felt about this particular demographic.”

“I actually don’t think you have,” he said rather definitely. “You’ve not necessarily reviewed your attitude to children, even though I know you’re…um…not un-fond [wry glance at me] of {Marcus}. You’ve consistently told me of your worries that {Paedo} would harm {Marcus} and now his younger brother. I think that concern – that fear of harm coming to either or both of them – drives this.”

“Maybe. But what difference would my presence make anyway?”

He eyed me suspiciously.

“OK, C. What’s that look for?” I asked dryly.

“You want to protect them, perhaps. Even if your visits are infrequent, perhaps some small part of you thinks that you can at least keep an eye on them.”

We considered that in silence for a few minutes.

Then, “Fuck it, no! I don’t want to go to the fucking bastardhole and the children aren’t really at risk and I don’t want to have them yapping around my fucking ankles.”

To my astonishment, a broad grin grew across his face. He didn’t even bother trying to hide it; in fact, to my considerable perplexity, he started to laugh.

I gawped at him in confused disgust. “What could you possibly find funny about this?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Your direct contradiction of yourself,” he replied, still seemingly amused. “A minute ago, ‘I want to see the children’…now, ‘sod the children, sod the entire place’.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to see the children. I said that I didn’t not want to go. Different!”

With the smile still smugly etched across his face, he raised his eyebrows cynically at me.

I didn’t think I was going to win this, my argument being as it was a pedantic point of mere semantics. Instead, I decided to be moderately sensible for once, ergo chosing to steer the conversation back to the issue of ‘Ways to Avoid Hotel California’.

Thankfully his face fell back to its serious, considerate expression. To my surprise, he then espoused a similar tactic to the one initially advocated by NewVCB.

“I know your mother doesn’t believe you,” he said, “but could you say to her that there are…issues with your uncle?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’d ask what they are, of course!”

“How much did you tell her about what he did to you?”

“When I was about 14, I told her about some of the more ‘minor’ stuff – [uncomfortably] the touching, you know. More recently, I told her that he raped me, though I only told her of one such incident.”

“Sorry, when did you tell her that?”

I thought about it for a minute, and concluded that (as it was about the time I saw Edith, the hypnotherapist) it must have been in my earlier 20s.

“Still several years ago, then,” noted Dr Mathematical Genius.

“Yes. What’s your point?”

“I’m wondering,” he said, “that since some time has passed, could you not maybe broach the subject with her again? I mean, not necessarily tell her the extent of what happened, nor even use the words ‘rape’ or ‘sexual abuse’, but something like, ‘A few years ago, I told you some of what this man did to me. I know you don’t believe me, but nevertheless I cannot see him at this time.’ Something like that?”

Again: “No.”

Again: “Why not?”

“She didn’t believe me then, she won’t believe me now. So it’ll only lead to conflict, and I don’t like conflict.”

He once again took me aback when he said, “but you so often seem to find yourself in it, don’t you?”

Cheeky fucking cunt. I demanded that he exemplify.

Unfortunately that was not a difficult ask of him. “Well,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “With work. With the Trust. [Dramatic pause] With me.”

I defended myself vehemently regarding the Trust. They are the ones at fault here – they are the ones that have always been at fault, pushing me from pillar to post to nowhere back to pillar back to post back to nowhere and so on – and I think it is completely reasonable for me to challenge them for being incompetent and not patient-, but target-driven. Fuck them. Any assertiveness on my part in this regard is absolutely more than justified and I find myself offended that C – who fucking encouraged me to speak up in the first place – now wanks on about how I invite conflict. Tosser.

“Of course, it will not have escaped your notice that my ‘conflict‘ [said with heavy derogatory emphasis] with your Trust has all been by written correspondence. You may also remember in discussions you and I had about my work that when I was writing to {the Horse}, I was assertive and articulate. When I actually met her and my boss, I was a complete and utter mess, who could hardly say fucking anything. And as for you, if anything you should feel complimented that I bitch at you, just as I am presently doing. I wouldn’t be doing so were I not comfortable in your company. Remember when I first met you? It was all very nice, all very polite – all very conscripted and hence ultimately pointless. But that is no more, C. Surely that is good.”

I watched as he recoiled slightly, in a vaguely self-defensive fashion. The wryness with which I had approached the session began to replace the irritability and venom that had characterised the first half hour or so. I suppressed a slightly satisfied smile.

“OK,” he began again eventually. “So it’s interpersonal relationships in which you avoid conflict…with some exceptions, where you feel comfortable.”

“In essence.”

“You become panicky when conflict arises when you’re not completely comfortable with the person. Emotional, even.”

“Um…’panicky’ worked perfectly well on its own,” I corrected him, with a slight knowing grin.

He smiled in return. This interpersonal conflict was over. For now.

“But seriously though,” he persisted, eventually. “You try to deny any hint of emotion in yourself, but that’s just not true. Yes, you have this rational, intellectual, assertive side, but that’s not all there is to it.”

“But there is no function of this emotional bullshit. It doesn’t do anything, does it? It’s the domain of whiny, middle-aged woman who have no fight nor life left in them and have nothing better to do. Assertiveness, abrasiveness, intellectualising – these things can get results, they can achieve things. Emotion doesn’t do that. Not unless you’re an actor, I suppose…”

“You think you’re a ‘whiny, middle-aged woman’?” he laughed, slightly cynically.

I smiled apologetically. “Perhaps that was over the top. You know what I mean, though. I just don’t want a part of that.”

He said, “but the thing is, and I know that you know this really, emotions are integral to our personalities, to how we interact with the world. They’re not big, bad things to be brushed under the carpet. That leads to alienation, and further difficulties in one’s life. This is still one of your biggest issues, Pandora. You fight so hard to suppress how you’re feeling, and the thing is you need to feel it – and you need to express it.”

I shuddered. “But the thing is it doesn’t fulfil anything…” I started again, rather repetitively.

He interrupted me mid-sentence with possibly my favourite line from the whole 53 weeks (2,650 minutes – 2,680 if you consider the time a few sessions have run over – which is 44 hours and 40 minutes or one day, 20 hours and 40 minutes, or 160,800 seconds. I think). He said, his face wrinkled in thought, “everything with you has to be so…mechanistic.”

I was overcome with joy and amusement. What an absolutely fabulous way to be described. Mechanistic. Mechanistic. I love it!

(I’m not sure it was meant to be a compliment, but still – I thought it was spectacular. Just wonderful.).

I laughed heartily as he attempted to continue. “Yes, mechanistic,” he went on, pretending to ignore my laughter. “It’s like you input everything in your life into a big machine and expect every single thing to produce a clear result at the other end.”

“Well…I sort of do,” I responded, still laughing.

“But isn’t there another way of looking at it?” he pressed. Gah!!! It really pisses me off when C asks this eternally fuckwitted question. There’s another way of looking at everything, for fuck’s sake; there’s nearly seven billion people on this planet, how could there not be?! It doesn’t mean that is, or can ever be, my view. Stick you pathetic attempts at pathetic CBT right up your pathetic, boney arse, C.

So I responded by saying that there wasn’t, not from my personal perspective anyhow, which curiously seemed to prompt him to go on the offensive.

He said, almost challengingly, “well, you were emotional here last week.”

True. I shrugged, reluctantly.

“In fact,” he continued, with a slight air of triumphalism I thought (though I am quite possibly reading too much into it), “you confessed about the sense of loss you feel about this therapy ending. [Avoid his gaze, Pan, avoid it at all costs!] You said it was ‘tragic’.”

“I did not!” I exclaimed, horrified he had got it into his head that it was that big a deal to me. (It is, but I don’t want him to know that!). “What I actually said was that it was tragic that so many people probably end up dead because of health service inadequacies [this is true, despite his protestations to the contrary]. I did admit to a sense of loss, yes, and that is very, very bad indeed – but your recollection is not completely accurate.”

He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Well, I think it is. [Fucker]. But why is that admission ‘very bad indeed’?”

I went into a self-hating rant about how being so vulnerable, so pathetically demonstrative of my feelings, so impassioned and hysterical, was dreadful. I am supposed to be an intelligent, articulate, self-assured woman (ha! As if!). Such fits of histrionics are not permissible. No. No way.

He sighed and looked down, knowing the end of the allocated 50 minutes was nigh upon us, and that there was no way he could make any further points on this in the few seconds remaining. After about 30 seconds of silence, the inevitable “the session is over” mantra was intoned.

I was in surprisingly good form as I left him, despite some of the difficult or somewhat confrontational moments in the session. Aside from the caffeine induced ‘wryness’, I was still amused by the quite brilliant ‘mechanistic’ remark. A week later, I continue to be.

However, paradoxically, an ‘anti-mechanistic’ comment also gave me great pleasure this week. Nick Hewling, reading on Facebook that C had levied this particular accusation at me’, said, “that’s proof that he hasn’t read your blog. No one could say that about your writing.”

*blushes* Thank you, Nick. Thank you with mechanistic bells on top.

Anyway, after the lively discussion in the comments section of the ‘To Quit or Not to Quit’ post, I had determined that I would attempt to be honest with C about what I had been thinking and about the disillusionment I was feeling with the process. To my own considerable surprise, I did all this and more. It was a productive session, if rather – what’s the word? Saddening? Full of regret for what will be lost? Yes. It was productive, if rather [insert mournful word of your choice here].

When I rather arrogantly arrived in the waiting room, which I have come to regard as my own exclusive, personal space, I was horrified to see another woman sitting there. There is never anyone there. A curiosity of the building – indeed, this specific corridor – is that it houses both Psychology and Audiology, so occasionally one will see an elderly person there to have his or her hearing tested sitting on the other side of the corridor, in the ‘other’ waiting room, which is just an extension of the Psychology one really. But no one except me is ever in the one quite subtly, but paradoxically ostentatiously (due to its stigmatic nature), marked ‘Psychological Therapies’.

Another point of note is that the corridor is almost always deathly silent, save for the creaking of the door on the rare occasion that it is opened. I’ve gotten used to it now, but for a number of weeks I found it strangely ethereal and disconcerting – the opposite, surely, of the kind of place in which people with mental health problems should find myself. The phrase “as quiet as the grave” often comes to mind (perfect for suicidal types). On the other hand, busy, noisy waiting rooms, such as NewVCB’s (which was also C’s way back at the start of our relationship) freak me out too.

Anyway, it was probably evident to the woman that I was slightly freaked out by her presence, but we politely acknowledged each other then mutually pretended to think about something other than the fact that we were sitting there together. When the bloody door started creaking, the woman passed remark on this irritating feature. This led to a desultory conversation deriding the waiting room, but it eventually developed into a discussion that tangentially referenced why we were both there. It transpired that the woman was there for the first time. By this point, I had convinced myself that I’d got my dates/days/times/life wrong, and that this person was one of C’s other non-existent patients, but when I asked her who she was seeing, it was indeed someone else.

Which led me to another silly internal dilemma. I have never seen anyone from Psychology apart from C and his secretary. The person who has the opposite office from C is some audiology person. It’s like C is the entire department. Or maybe he and his department exist in some alternative plane of dimension, who knows – the former creepiness of the waiting room might lend itself to that fantastical theory. Maybe the waiting room is purgatory and C is its gate-keeper.

OK, I’m babbling and infinitely regressing – the point was, it was bizarre to learn that there really are others working there, including (as in this case) other doctors of clinical psychology. I knew it rationally, of course, but when there is no physical evidence available to you for something, well – the mind is a funny thing. Or at least it is when you are a nutjob.

I tried to reassure the woman, but possibly the admission that I was still in attendance after an entire year merely served to intimidate her. Either way, I never got to see her fabled psychologist, because C arrived to escort me to my weekly doom before him/her/it.

Point of note: my formerly dark hair (the photo on the right is…er…not accurate. It is me, but it doesn’t really represent me. Which is exactly why it’s there) is now bright pink. I bleached it to fuck then slapped some purple muck-rubbish over it on the Tuesday of last week, and even though I failed to obtain the intended purple result, the resulting pink was drastic and eminently satisfactory.

So out came C, expecting to be greeted by a dull-looking fat woman with slightly-off-red-brunette-ish-thing coloured hair, to instead be confronted by a dull looking fat woman with flourescent pink hair. He was visibly taken aback. He started. He stared. Very good. Very good indeed

I wished the other woman luck and followed C to the office. I always hate walking past the secretary’s room. She knows who I am and why I’m there and for some hateful reason, that makes me feel mortified and shamed. The thing is, in general, I do not feel shame for my mental illnesses. Why should I? They are what they are, and they are a part of me. For the most part I am open and easy going about disclosure, sometimes even actual discussion, of same. So why the secretary’s probably-uninterested knowledge in me freaks me out is beyond me.

Well over 900 words and the session hasn’t even begun. That is surely a record even for me.

So. I went in and sat down; he joined me and said, “you’ve dyed your hair.”

Readers, why – why – do people make such inane, asinine statements? Why?! I know that I have dyed my hair, C – I dyed it (or in other cases, I allowed someone else to do so). It wasn’t done when I was dissociated to fuck or anything – and even if it had been, might I not have noticed the change by now? I mean, I’m not at all criticising him for commenting on the change – it was all but unavoidable – but the pointlessness of the actual statement he did offer both irritated and amused me.

“Um…yes, I have…” I said slowly, as if speaking to a child, making a hand gesture intended to convey a WTF? sort of message

“It looks well,” he said, nodding slightly as if self-referentially agreeing.

“Thank you,” I responded.

Two weeks hitherto I would have dissected that small three-word statement of his to death with something along the lines of:

OMFG did he just compliment me? Oh wow! Does that mean he likes me? Does he care about me? Does he genuinely think I look OK? Or is it some sort of psychotherapeutic trick? But hang on, is he even allowed to say that? Isn’t that treading into countertransferential territory that he should be having out with his supervisor? Isn’t that dangerous…? Does he…will he…what if..?

Blah blah blah

Yadda yadda yadda

La la la

Etc etc etc ad infinitum

The fact that I have written that at all, of course, suggests that I am dissecting the living fuck out of what he said, but at the time of his comment, I just nonchalantly accepted the remark as I would nonchalantly accept similar from anyone. That is not my default position around C at all, as you will probably be well aware.

Anyway, we discussed a few boring housekeeping issues for a few minutes, culminating in my telling him that I had an appointment with NewVCB scheduled for Wednesday 2 June. For some reason, this prompted him to ask about the status of my ongoing war with Mr Director-Person.

I advised C that I was finding each response from Mr D-P to be increasingly pathetically amusing. I ranted a bit about how Mr D-P clearly didn’t know the answer to some of my questions, and about how if I were in his position and receiving his salary that I “would damn well know how to do my job.”

(Interesting aside – Detective Inspector Google advises me that Mr D-P does not have a background in mental health at all. He comes from fucking management! Well chosen, Trust…).

Anyhow, given Mr D-P’s closing statement in his latest letter about the assignment of a CPN or SW instead of C to my case, I told C that I thought this was a load of wank because, apart occasionally from shite therapies that don’t work, such members of the CMHT don’t seem – to me – to actually do an awful lot. I know some of you disagree with that – it’s just my observations at this stage really.

He denied that there was a major likelihood of any of them bollocking on about CBT and other such nonsense, but when asked what they would actually do instead, he said something like, “well, you see them at the CMHT, sometimes in your own home, and they support you.”

I laughed in his face. He’d been expecting such a reaction, to be fair – it seems he’s not entirely sure what the rest of the CMHT do either. I suppose I can understand that – back when I was still at work, I didn’t know what some staff in other departments did either. At any rate, I don’t remember the full details of the conversation, but I recollect that I agreed to meet the designated person a few times to see if there could be any value in such liasion. Then something struck me.

“Are they all women?” I asked.

“Well…about 90% are, yeah.”

“Oh no no no, that won’t work at all. I don’t get on well with women at all.” Pause. “At least not here, not in the real world. [Philosophically] If this is even the real world…”

It’s not just that I don’t get on with other women, aside from exchanging the time of day with them or whatever. I’m actually moderately afraid of them. I’m wildly different from any stereotype of a woman, but then so are plenty of people of this gender, so what makes me so bloody special? This is something I will have to think about, but not now, because in whatever way C responded, we didn’t dwell on my woman-fear. What is especially weird about this is that the majority of my online friends are women, including two (K and Annie) that I’ve met. I don’t fear or not get on with any of these ladies – very much the opposite. Well. Who said I was anything other than a walking contradiction of abject strangeness?

During the anti-SW/CPN thread of conversation, I had thrown in a “that’s something else about which I must inform you,” in reference to my ending therapy proposition. He picked up on that, and asked me what the ‘something else’ was.

I was completely honest for once and just told him that I had been seriously considering coming in there that morning, thanking him for all he’d done, and then shaking his hand and leaving. Permanently.

The instantaneous surprise that suddenly permeated the room was palpable. His eyes widened, his brows furled. Again, he actually physically started. In fact, it was more than that – in an apparently instinctive move, he almost defensively sat back, as if wishing to create a distance between us. The expression on his face was not one I’d seen before – the closest it had come to that previously was only about 15 minutes ago, when he’d been taken aback by my dramatic change in appearance. ‘Taken aback’ is too small a phrase for his behaviour this second time round, despite the post title. He was stunned. Absolutely astonished.

This gave me no pleasure, despite my sometime sense of misanthropic sadism. I like C. I feel like I know him, even though I don’t. I don’t want to hurt him or inadvertently question his practice or professionalism, which it felt like I was doing. I felt like an evil bitch that had just stabbed her best mate quite royally and deeply in the back.

I tried to make him feel better by telling him that I had changed my mind, but when he asked why I had done so, I was – once again – entirely honest, and admitted that it was for logistical rather than therapeutic reasons.

“I am certain that as things stand that I will have to be re-referred for therapy in the future,” I told him. “I don’t want the Trust to have ammunition against me – ‘oh, that one’s just a borderline, ignore her – she walked out last time she was in the system, so she can’t have any more treatment”. I know that’s exactly what would happen and I can’t take that chance. So you’re stuck with me for now.”

“We’re going to have to have a conversation on why you were even considering this,” he responded, not unreasonably. “But in terms of actual practical matters, I don’t think that that would be the case at all. You attend appointments as scheduled and are always on time. You can work psychologically and you commit to that work. In my view, you’d be perfectly eligible to have any future referral considered as normal, regardless of whether you previously left therapy by your own choosing.”

“For the avoidance of doubt,” I pressed, “you are telling me that leaving therapy now would not in any way impact negatively upon my position within the CMHT and mental health system in general in the future?”

“I really don’t think it would, no.”

“OK.”

And so began the ‘why?’ conversation. Preamble: I don’t remember all of this. It was a week ago and it was a stressful topic to cover.

My first point was that if I was going to seek private psychotherapy when things with C end – and I am – that it would just be preferable to start to interview potential analysts/therapists now, rather than dither in the pointlessness that I expected to be the remaining time with C.

Why did I suppose said time would be pointless?

I told him that I thought therapy had been generally useless of late, not through any fault of his but entirely through mine, and that ergo it was my expectation that I could expect more of the same. “I come in here every week, and I stare at you or at points in your room, and I say fuck all. We dance around important material because I am not willing or able to discuss it, and the whole thing just becomes an exercise in futility. It’s a waste of your time and mine. It’s not doing anything at the minute, except maintaining (or perhaps even worsening) my sense of re-traumatisation.”

For some reason, he raised his eyebrows and asked me if I felt re-traumatised – I would have thought the answer to that would have been quite obvious given things like this and this.

I was very frank with him and said that I believed, intellectually at least, that I was trying to protect myself from further re-traumatisation. “The most gifted therapist in the world cannot change this state of being in a couple of months,” I told him (an honestly held belief). “I believe that it can, ultimately, be changed – but not in the timeframe you and I have remaining together. So I think that, unconsciously, I’ve shut down and won’t talk about anything important, because I know that’s going to cause me much hurt, and there will in the end be no outlet for that pain.”

I hate talking about the end of therapy. I always direct the conversation away from it when it comes up, in part as it is presently the only thing that makes me cry, and I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to cry because I fucking hate expressions of emotions, but moreover, I don’t want him to know of the strength of my feeling for him. Why? Because it’s so asymmetrical, so quintessentially patient-therapist, so un-returnable, so needy and pathetic. It is A Very Bad Thing.

So for me to almost direct the conversation that way was really rather unusual. OK, so there was an inevitability about it ending up at that juncture, I suppose, but it was the fact that I actually brought it there that was odd.

C sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. Eventually, he sat forward again, and began to reward my candour with some of his own.

“I’ve been in a difficult position,” he admitted. “I’ve said to them [there's always An Enigmatic 'Them', isn't there?], ‘look, this person needs long-term psychotherapy,’ but there’s always issues of targets, or of costs, or of whatever. And we’re trained to mostly only provide short-term therapies.”

Oh. So when you said that curtailing things was your decision, and not the Trust’s, I was right in supposing that that was accurate in only the most technical of senses, was I?

Basically, yes. Apparently, “I could have kept it under the radar. They wouldn’t know how long I have been seeing you for, but I decided the end point on the grounds that I did declare how long we’d been seeing each other to them.”

Dun-dun-DUN! I feckin’ knew it. I feckin’, feckin’ knew it. I resisted the urge to smile a smug smile.

I appreciated his better-late-than-never honesty and told him so. Would it have been nice for him to have kept this apparently most sensitive material ‘under the radar’? Yes, of course it would. But even I don’t expect him to all but lie for me. If he gets in trouble, my continued psychotherapy is not exactly going to be assured.

Anyway, there developed a discussion about part of my thinking about quitting therapy being about punishing him, or finding him less competent that one should be given to expect. I vehemently denied the latter point and demanded that he disabuse himself of the idea were that his belief. As for punishing him, apparently I want him to feel the same sense of loss that I feel as regards the termination of the relationship.

Time for me to be pathetic. “No [looking meek and helpless]. I don’t…I don’t want you to feel bad.”

‘Bad’ and ‘nice’ should be fucking banned from the English language, at least if you are above the age of nine. Fuck’s sake. How child-like and grotesquely piteous can one be?

He made some gesture of acceptance, but continued by saying, “but I think you’re very often angry with me – you blame me for the end of this, you’re angry about the way I sometimes speak to you, content shared between us can infuriate you.”

I denied this once again. “You make t sound like I’m permanently angry with you, and I’m not,” I protested. “Do I get angry with you? Of course I do. That’s to be expected in any interpersonal relationships, and I know there are times when I piss you off too. But I don’t think there’s some big transferential thing here for you to hook on – it’s just normal, surely?”

He claimed that I was angry in that moment (which perhaps I was, I don’t remember) and I started ranting about being furious with the system, which I perpetually am. If he wants to examine a permanent anger, then it’s with The Enigmatic ‘Them’, not him.

I remember saying, “I just wonder how many people end up dead because of something like this. People that could have been helped, but because silly targets and other bureaucratic faff and unlucky postcodes and grubby pieces of shite like that get in the way, they end up at the mercy of their illnesses, are completely fucked and alone, and they see no way out and they top themselves. It’s tragic, C. Tragic.”

My passionate, warrior-like micro-soliloquy was laden with what he would call emotion, and I got the usual, “you look like you want to cry” crap.

This perennial phrase of C’s pisses me off. No, C, of course I do not want to cry. I hate expressing these feelings, let’s not forget. If I am looking or sounding tearful, then that is because it’s visceral and un-chosen. Automatic. Unavoidable. I do not want it! I know I’m playing a silly semantics game here, but it does piss me off.

I continued to try and fight against these Christ-forsaken tears, but I think that they probably won in the end. I didn’t end up breaking down exactly, but I did let a few of the monstrous droplets of salty water pass from my traitorous eyes to my cheeks and fingertips.

Whether it was solicited by him or not, I don’t recall, but I have some memory of, through these tears, admitting to the sense of loss – the sense of grief – that I feel about the cessation of my relationship with him. Eugh. How gruesome an admission that was, and will always be. A Very Bad Thing. A Very Bad Thing, indeed.

And then…

“We’re going to have to leave it there, Pandora.” At least he had the grace to sound apologetic.

One thing we briefly discussed in a housekeeping capacity was to continue things until – if memory serves me correctly – the start of September, rather than have a set number of weeks remaining. He is taking two weeks’ leave over the summer, and it will therefore work out at approximately the same number of sessions as he had previously offered, but I think I might be wrangling one or two extra out of it. Very-tiny-win. Maybe.

I hate these discussions. I was particularly vexed by them in and around Christmas, where it felt like it was all C wanted to talk about. That seemed endlessly circular and futile to me, as if we were avoiding the very issues for which I sought psychotherapy in the first place. And in the main that’s very much still my view. Still and withall, though, it’s hard to deny that a lot of my attempts to avoid the topic lie in the very obvious points that I simply don’t want, or feel unable, to ever be without him.

Remember those (ahem) wonderful dissociation questionnaires that C had given me to complete?  Those ones that could potentially be scored by their creator, were I willing to undertake further examination under his supervision?  Well, guess what.  The creator isn’t any longer scoring the questionnaires, meaning C had to do it himself.  And the results weren’t pretty.

He faffed around the issue for ages.  He spouted all this bollocks about how it was important to consider the results with a pinch of salt, because of two primary factors.  One was the fact that I had queried the relevance of the individual questions’ scaling procedures.  Two…and here he became, by my observations, quite uncomfortable…there was an issue with a validity scale.

Validity scale, eh?  Val-id-ity.  Something in my response to this stupid thing was invalid, was it?

He ummed and ah-ed a bit, and then said, “I’m not saying that you’re exaggerating…”

“If I’m exaggerating, would you please just call and spade a spade and tell me so,” I predictably interjected.

“…no, you’re not exaggerating, it’s just that you feel things more painfully than others.”  He paused briefly, biting his lip and wearing his thoughtful face, clearly looking for some sort of analogy.  He eventually came up with, “think of it like this.  If two people fall and cut their leg [way to patronise there, C!], Person A might be hurt, but not feel it terribly or for long.  Person B, on the other hand, having sustained exactly the same injury, may be in agony and for some time – his or her pain is still real, the situation is just different.”

Oh really.  ”So I’m exaggerating then,” I reiterated.  ”Why won’t you just admit that?”

“No,” he insisted.  ”Look, I’ll read what it says to you.”

I can’t find any reference to it online now – presumably it’s only available in paid journal articles or books – but it went something like this:

Highly neurotic [yay] patients will exhibit amplified scores [thus reducing the validity of their answers]….blah blah blah…it is important to bear in mind that these patients do not deliberately seek to skew the questionnaire, and that their responses are very strongly felt [to be accurate] by them.

Teeheehee!  I’m sure you can guess my response.  ”So, what it’s saying is, in effect, that I am exaggerating my answers, whether consciously or otherwise.”

Poor C.  It wasn’t really fair to consistently harass him like that, but then I didn’t think that all this validity bollocks was really fair either.  It sounds so hideously manipulative and deliberate, despite what Paul Dell (the MID’s creator) and C may try to say to the contrary.  I don’t like to think of myself as a manipulator, except when I do it consciously (which is infrequent, but not unknown, and no, I don’t blame borderline personality disorder, I blame Pandora.  I blame me).  Perhaps that’s exactly the issue; I hate not having control over any given situation, and if I am unconsciously going around manipulating people then that is far worse, personally speaking, than if I was doing so quite deliberately.  All of which is absolutely great when you have a specifier of “with dissociative features” added to your myriad of psychiatric diagnoses.  Oh yes.

Anyhow, I digress.  I can’t remember how C responded to my latest protests that he was accusing me of sexing up my symptoms, but anyway he decided to finally show me my results.  Before handing me the copy of the data, he said, slightly apprehensively, “ignoring the validity scale and your own concerns, the responses as they are would strongly support a diagnosis of…[clears throat, looks sym-/empathetic]…DID.”

DID.  DID?!  Dissociative Identity Disorder?!  Multiple Personality Disorder?! Oh.  My.  Jesusing. God.

Within a nano-second, I felt the blood drain from my head, as if my brain had become detached from my bodily bloodstream.  Part of me (how appropriate) could see herself sitting there in the chair, her face paling visibly under the almost-pointlessly thin layer of Max Factor she had bothered to apply earlier that morning.  I saw the shock – the sheer horror – that her facial expression conveyed.  How can I have DID?!

Still within this split second, he saw the look of almost unparalleled, chilled alarm on my face, and dutifully leapt to the rescue.  He made a dismissive gesture with his hands and emphatically advised me that, “I do not think you have DID.”

He handed me the document, whilst still making utterances about this (lack of) belief.  I didn’t really hear what he said.  I was consumed with shock and horror at the mere possibility of such a diagnosis being applicable to me.

My dismay didn’t end there.  I looked at the document and my face fell/heart sank/<insert metaphor denoting physical manifestations of dread here> all over again.  Most of my scores are higher, in some cases notably, than those for representing the threshold for a DID diagnosis:

My results are in black; DID is in blue; DD-NOS is pinkish; non-dissociative is grey.

Bloody hell.  I mean, bloody hell!!!  OK, so I know he said to take it all with a pinch of salt, but then that direction in itself left me with an internal dichotomy too; either I have a multiple personality, or I’m a twisted, embellishing manipulator.  Not exactly a win-win scenario, is it?

By this point C was concerned.  I don’t think he had expected me, in his words, to “freak out” with the magnitude that I did, and he kept reminding me that (a) he didn’t think I have DID and (b) that the whole thing should  not be taken 100% seriously.

Well, that’s nice isn’t it.  If it was such an irrelevant exercise, why did he give me it to complete in the first place?  Is it, C, because you didn’t (don’t) think it was irrelevant (yes) but now that you don’t like the results, you are pretending that you did (do)?  Hmm.

I let him discuss it with me a little.  I don’t remember much of the conversation, but I do recall that we eventually agreed that although I do have ‘parts’, they are fully integrated.  OK, so everyone has different sides of themselves that come out in different circumstances, but in my case they are much stronger in their ‘separate-ness’ (without actually being separate, if you get me), and they are known to interact (usually negatively) with each other.

I also remember launching into yet another self-vituperation, berating myself for being so horrified at the mere possibility of a DID diagnosis, when I know so many wonderful people that have the illness.  Why, I asked, is it such a frightening concept for me – why did I assume that there must be something inherently wrong with it – when I know these folks and I know that are good folks?

I don’t remember C’s exact response but he felt that my reaction didn’t negatively impact on the people I know with DID.  He seemed to opine that the suggestion of any major psychiatric diagnosis causes shock and concern to the new (or potential) ‘diagnosee’ – but I don’t agree.  I was glad when I got mine (as I was when they were updated to include C-PTSD).  I think the only two diagnoses that would really faze me would be DID and schizophrenia (which are not the same, just in case you don’t know it, though I’m sure you do).  Why is that?  I feel awful for saying it.  I feel like I am slighting people with these conditions and I don’t want to because in general I have nothing but admiration for those that cope with them on a daily basis.

The rest of the session was a waste of time of epic proportions.  I’ve detailed some of my mini-, self-directed rants here, and despite what I said in that post, there’s not really much to add.

One thing that does stand out was the point at which I noticed C had some scribbled notes sitting on the table between us.  They were just scribbles, nothing official whatsoever, yet they were written on Trust headed paper.  Not headed paper that you use to write to people – that’s different – but paper the Trust has obviously had printed specifically for the sake of note-taking and general rubbish.

This enraged me.  I mean genuine, bitter, full-blown, I’m-going-to-kick-the-living-shite-out-of-you, utter and complete fury.  Rage.  Anger.  Blood seethed through my body.

I actually hid it very well, because eventually C asked me what I was thinking, not spotting my anger.  However, upon answering I didn’t hold back and I was honest with him about my vexations.

Seriously.  The Trust goes about spending money in such a pointless, frivolous fashion, yet they refuse to provide the healthcare for which they are legally responsible?  I know it’s only paper, and in the grand scheme of things it probably doesn’t cost much, but shouldn’t they be penny-pinching in the areas of administration and bureaucracy rather than treatment?!  It’s outrageous and despicable.

Anyway, as adjuncts to the image above, here are explanations of the terms used in the MID.  Happy reading (!).

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Dear Mr Director Person

Re: Accessing Mental Health Services

Previous correspondence refers. Thank you for your eventual response of 12 May 2010.

I note with interest your willingness to point out that NICE guidelines are not always applicable in this jurisdiction, and that a regional team is “considering” the application of the KUF. I also have taken note of the information that a plan is being “worked on” to develop services in this Trust and that a NI Strategy for PD apparently exists. I am cautiously encouraged by this information.

However, you will recall that in my letter of 11 March, I specifically requested details on what is being done at this time to adequately govern the treatment for the serious difficulties faced by people with mental health issues in Northern Ireland. I would hope that your lack of a response to this question was an oversight and, therefore, I look forward to hearing from you in this connection by return. I would ask that you also detail how the rights of such individuals are secured within the community mental health system.

In relation to my own case specifically, you may be aware that <NewVCB> considers that I am afflicted with (amongst several other conditions) a form of complex post-traumatic stress disorder. I would refer you to Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman and The Haunted Self: Structural Dissociation and the Treatment of Chronic Traumatization by Onno van der Hart (and a multitude of other literature) on this subject. As I am sure you are aware, these sources (and many others) quite definitively assert that whilst psychotherapy is a vehicle to recovery, the inadequate provision of same can lead to re-traumatisation of the patient to whom the therapy is provided. I would assume that an explanation of the potential dangers of such a scenario is not necessary.

Given your evident familiarity with my case and your contact with C, it will probably come as no surprise to you that I have become thoroughly re-traumatised as a result of recent work with him. This is, I acknowledge, often a necessary step in the therapeutic process. My dissatisfaction with the service provided by the Trust stems from the fact that the Trust is allotting me very little time, by way of further psychotherapy, to address this. In short, the Trust is effectively releasing from therapy a patient who, as a result of the therapy being cut short, is in poorer health than at the beginning of the therapeutic process. Is it the Trust’s intention to discourage healing and indeed bring about psychological damage to ill and traumatised individuals? I do not believe that it is possible for even the most gifted therapist to alleviate this trauma within a matter of weeks, and have today discussed this issue with C, a meeting wherein it was agreed that my precarious situation within the Trust is, to put it diplomatically, “less than ideal”.

The Trust may, of course, claim that it is not bringing my treatment to an end. It is, I note, proposing to refer me to a CPN or mental health social worker after my contact with C ceases. With the greatest of respect to such members of the CMHT, I feel that this is far from adequate.  Given my re-traumatisation, I would enquire as to how a CPN or SW could (on their own, at least) possibly be considered a better choice than a qualified psychologist as my primary contact within the system, particularly given that such individuals often practice the supposedly panaceatic techniques of CBT or DBT, which I have found to be extremely unhelpful and indeed counter-productive in the past. I am not entirely sure what other kind of work such individuals could help me with, and would appreciate your kind clarification on same.

If the Trust’s actions are being determined by concerns around costs and NHS targets, then I would at least appreciate an acknowledgement of this. If, alternatively, the Trust considers that my therapy should end as a result of perceived psychotherapeutic attachment or reliance, perhaps you could admit to that fact (though of course most research in the area agrees that these issues, if present, should be fully explored rather than ignored).  In short, please advise on exactly why my psychotherapy is being cut so profoundly short and why my case is being transferred to an as yet unknown individual who may lack the expertise to deal with the kind of conditions with which I am diagnosed and indeed with the severe re-traumatisation of the kind that I am now experiencing.

For the avoidance of doubt, whilst I am willing to try to engage with a CPN or SW, I would strongly prefer that my psychological therapy with C continues past the currently proposed end date (circa September; in terms of actual meetings, this contact amounts to one year). Furthermore, I would also request that said therapy continues for as long as is necessary, bearing in mind two important factors. Firstly, it took over 12 years to finally be assigned any type of useful therapy, despite my having been referred by my GP to a number of other mental health practitioners (who, for various reasons for which I am not responsible, failed to be of any assistance). Secondly, as discussed with both C and <NewVCB>, it is highly likely that in the event of my discharge now, I will, in future, merely be re-referred for psychological therapy, thus rendering pointless any supposed cost-saving efforts surrounding the current process.

I would like to emphasise that I have found the current psychotherapeutic process at least modestly useful, and believe that through further contact with C, it could continue to help me.

I am certainly well aware of the strain on resources a case like mine presents, but as stated in my original correspondence to you, I am aware of quite a number of individuals in other Trusts that (have) receive(d) psychological therapy for years, if that is or has been deemed necessary (and in my own case it is accepted that long-term treatment of this nature is what is considered the best course of action). As you may be aware, mental health care receives approximately 50% less of the health service budget in Northern Ireland than it does in other parts of the UK; nevertheless, I know individuals in other Northern Ireland Trusts that still receive(d) ongoing psychotherapy for the required time (of course, by the same token, I do appreciate that some Trusts in Britain exhibit failings in mental health care too). Do you think that this postcode lottery vis a vis treatment – not necessarily PD specific – is acceptable? If not, what does the Trust propose to do to counteract the deficiency?

Finally, I would like to convey my sincere thanks to you for inviting me to express interest in your user involvement scheme. I shall be writing to your AD, <BitchBrain>, with said expression forthwith, and look forward to hopefully making a worthwhile contribution to personality disorder services within our Trust.

Thank you for your time once again. It is appreciated.

Regards.

Yours sincerely etc.

Thoughts? I will detail this morning’s session with C when I have actually bothered to adequately detail the last one. As you may note from the above, I have decided to pursue therapy to the end (thanks for your advice on same), though I was completely honest with him for once and told him about my having considered cutting it short and about how re-traumatised I feel.

Anyway, here is the latest letter from Mr Director-Person, in response to my correspondence of 11 March.  I am very impressed with his wonderfully speedy return on this.

Dear Pandora

Re Accessing Mental Health Services

Thank you for your letter of 11 March 2010 and I apologise for the delay in replying.  As we have acknowledged previously you are correct in your interpretation of the NICE Guidelines in relation to personality disorders.  However NICE does not apply automatically in Northern Ireland.  Currently a Regional Personality Disorder Group, brought together by the Department of Health, Social Services and Public Safety is considering the Knowledge and Understanding Framework (KUF) as a way forward to developing better services in Northern Ireland.

Locally, a group run by <Mr Twathead>, Head of Mental Health Nursing in our Trust, is working on a plan to improve services for people with personality disorders.  This service will support the objectives of the Northern Ireland Strategy for Personality Disorder.  The Trust is also in the process of recruiting Personality Disorder Practitioners who will work with community teams to provide a more locally responsive service.

As a Trust we are committed [hahaha!] to user involvement in the planning, delivery and monitoring of our services so we would be grateful if you could get back to us with an expression of interest in helping us develop better services for people with personality disorders – please contact <BitchBrain>, Assistant Director Mental Health Services, <Big Bin>, <phone number blah blah>.

In relation to your own treatment and care, <C> has spoken to <NewVCB> about follow-up sessions.  It was agreed that there would be a seamless [*explodes laughing*] transition at that time [<pedantry>at what time?  What point of your letter are you referring back to?</pedantry>] to the provision of support from either a community psychiatric nurse or a social worker from the community mental health team.  The details of who this will be and the extent of the contact will be negotiated closer to the time of transfer.

Yours sincerely

Mr Asshole Director-Person Cunt.

One thing that really annoyed me that has no relation to that actual content of the letter was that he addressed me as ‘Mrs <my new surname>’, assuming that any female changing their name must be doing so owing to marriage.  My cunting bank did this as well, which send me into a spiralling fury of ranty anti-capitalist rage.  What a pile of outdated, presumptuous, misogynistic crap.

Anyhow, this is my proposed response.

Dear Mr Director-Person

Re: Accessing MH Services

Previous correspondence refers.  Thank you for your eventual response of 12 May 2010.

I note with interest your willingness to point out that NICE guidelines are not always applicable in this jurisdiction, and that a regional team is “considering” the application of the KUF.  I also have taken note of the information that a plan is being “worked on” to develop services in this Trust and that a NI Strategy for PD apparent exists.  However, you will recall that in my letter of 11 March, I specifically requested details on how the treatment of the very real challenges faced by Northern Ireland individuals with mental health difficulties (not just personality disorders) is being adequately governed and protected now.  I am disappointed to note that you have failed to provide this information.

You may be aware that <NewVCB>, whilst reluctant to continue the tradition inherent in the system of providing stigmatic diagnoses, felt that I am afflicted with a form of complex post-traumatic stress disorder.  I would refer you to Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman and The Haunted Self: Structural Dissociation and the Treatment of Chronic Traumatization by Onno van der Hart on this subject.  As I am sure you are aware, these sources (and many others) quite definitively feel that whilst psychotherapy is a vehicle to recovery, the inadequate provision of same can lead to re-traumatisation.  Given your apparent familiarity with my case, I believe that I can fairly reasonably conclude that you will be aware that I am thoroughly re-traumatised thanks to recent work with C.

To that end, I should be grateful if you could clarify the mandate of mental health services within your Trust.  Is it your actual goal to discourage healing and indeed bring about psychological damage to ill and traumatised individuals?

In particular, I must question the decision to refer me to a CPN or mental health social worker after my contact with C ceases.  I must confess to being amused at your contention that the transition from C to this person would be “seamless” – aside from the fact that it is impossible for you to predict the level of “seamlessness”, and the fact that I am well acquainted with C without any knowledge of his “successor” (and bearing in mind social anxiety is one of my many diagnoses), as yet no one has been able to tell me exactly what such individuals do other than to attempt to encourage their charges to complete day to day activities.  C-PTSD and BPD, as you know, require significant psychotherapy, not reminders to undertake simple tasks (which, I might add, are often impossible regardless of external encouragement).  Whilst there is arguably a place for such professionals as adjunctive workers involved in a person’s treatment, at present I utterly fail to see how assigning them as the primary contact can be of significant benefit, at least to someone someone such as myself.

On the other hand, I am also aware that certain individuals of these specialisms practice the supposedly panaceatic techniques of cognitive and dialectical behavioural therapy.  After my 12 years of being richocheted around your system – and of being forced into the private sector thanks to its failings – I have experience of these “therapies” and feel strongly that not only are they ineffective and patronising, they are indeed offensive.  Their practice is in keeping with the victim-blaming culture that seems inherent in psychiatry and allied professions in reference to BPD.

Whilst I accept that the above view is personal and not held by everyone, and that these techniques can have at least temporary usefulness for some sufferers of mental illness, it has been accepted by those involved in my own case that this would not be appropriate for me.  I would therefore hope and expect that it is not suggested.

I would, ergo, again enquire as to the relevance of a CPN or SW as opposed to a qualified psychotherapist as my primary case worker.

I would like to convey my sincere thanks to you for inviting me to express interest in your user involvement scheme.  I shall be writing to your AD, <BitchBrain>, with said expression forthwith, and look forward to hopefully making a worthwhile contribution to personality disorder services within our Trust.

Thank you for your time.

Regards

Pandora (Ms)

I whacked this response out on a secluded beach on the Turkish Mediterranean.  My God, what a sad, pointless life I lead!

I’m seeking advice on this one because, although I feel my letter is fairly good, it doesn’t ask many direct questions, meaning that Mr D-P can cleverly wriggle out of answers yet again.  To this end, I wonder if any of you would like to suggest amendments, additions or direct questions that I could use when writing back to him.  As with the last post, all views are most welcome.

Thanks again lovelies.  x

Anyway, I may report on the holiday in due course, but for now I need your advice, my precious lovelies.  I’ve been thinking seriously since I last saw C – and before, for that matter – of just quitting therapy.   I will outline my reasons and the pros and cons of this, but whatever the case I would really value your advice or tales of your experiences of same.   Thanks so much to all of you on Twitter and Facebook that have already provided such counsel.

Basically, I feel that the whole situation with C is completely out of my control, and this is doing my head in.  I’m not exactly a control freak, but I know that if things are in my hands, then at least I am not in as vulnerable a position than I would be in the case where the power is firmly in the hands of others.  The therapy is ending in – what? –  seven or eight weeks anyway, so why not take control of things in one of the few ways I now can?  What are those few weeks going to actually even do, apart from fuck up my life even more?

I’m also at the stage where I believe firmly that therapy is thoroughly re-traumatising me.  I accept that a certain amount of this is inevitable – indeed, I’m sure, necessary – in trauma therapy, but the thing is in most cases the therapist continues working with the client at least until he or she has been able to overcome that re-traumatisation (or, in the worst case scenario, not be quite so hideously haunted by it).  This will not be the case with me, unless C can miraculously process all my traumatic memories – those of systematic, long-term child sexual abuse, abandonment/rejection, bullying and betrayal – in a few pathetic weeks.  He doesn’t even know about it all (not because I have deliberately withheld information, simply as some things have to take priority), so how can he?  Basically, I am completely re-traumatised and it is all but impossible that I am going to leave therapy in a different state.

Useful work is not even being done at this stage, in my view, because I’ve become terribly defensive again.  At least, I assume that it is defensiveness – it never feels exactly like that in session, it’s just that I can’t seem to talk about anything worthwhile anymore.  But of course I can rationalise that behaviour out of session: I know that I’m teetering on the precipice of being hurt with a pain unparalleled in years, so it makes sense for me to clam up in order that I can protect myself from being even more at C’s mercy than I already am.

So, pros and cons of ending therapy of my own accord.

Pros

• Regaining control of the situation.
• Earlier transition to a private (and hence more reliable) therapist, and an earlier start at interviewing those on the shortlist.
• Satisfaction of beating C at his own game.
• Reduction of further re-traumatisation.
• Reduction of further wastage of 50 minutes each week on both sides.

Cons

• The Trust will almost certainly interpret this as typical borderline behaviour and note further stigmatic bullshit all over my medical notes.
• The Trust will consider the fact that I quit therapy of my own volition in any future referrals and presumably respond with a giant ‘fuck off’.
• I might miss C and end up regretting finishing interaction with him before the last possible minute that I could have done.
• W claims that therapy seems to have been working of late, presumably owing to his objective and detailed reading of my material here.  It certainly was doing so, for a while, though I don’t really think it is at present.  But if it is, then I could be ‘blowing it’.

One thing I am going to do – to wind C and the Trust up if nothing else – is demand some material from them.  One, I want copies of the entire files that C and NewVCB hold on me.  They will be requested, respectively, tomorrow and at my psychiatric appointment next Wednesday.  Two, I intend to launch a Freedom of Information request into the minutiae of certain Trust expenditure, so as I can quote the Trust’s almost inevitable wastage in my ongoing dispute with Mr Director-Person (more on that cunt later today).

So.  In conclusion, I would really, really appreciate all your thoughts on this matter.  Any views of any persuasion are most welcome.  Should I quit therapy with C before he quits it for me, or should I ride it out to the end?

Thank you all.  x

I am going on holiday this evening. Ergo, I will be (mostly) in absentia until at least 24 May.

Unlike the preceeding hours before the last time I went on holiday, I am not in a good mood. I am, in fact, muderously livid. C is to blame (surprise surprise), even though it’s not his fault.

So, the latest on the wanky questionnaires is that either I have DID or I’m exaggerating my dissociative symptoms. He tried to dress it up, but that’s what it comes down to whatever he says.

So typical of borderlines, yes? Neurotic, attention-seeking, self-obsessed, manipulative narcissists.

Beyond that the session was thouroughly pointless. It was just more of me slagging myself off endlessly. He didn’t even bother to defend me this time, like he has been known to do, because apparently I am trying to manipulate him into doing so or something.

Some gems:

I’m a five year old fantasist trapped in a womans’ body. A pretty smart five year old, but a five year old nonetheless.

I’m an immature, pathetic, stupid waste of space. Well…not stupid. But stupid all the same. Just not stupid-stupid. But the stupid kind of stupid. Except not actually stupid, just…stupid.

[On seeing Trust headed paper being used, as intended, for rough notes] You do realise that I’m internally raging, don’t you? That exemplifies your pathetic public sector inefficiency. No wonder the Trust has no money. Such wastage. [Genuinely seething inside - proper, murderous anger].

I’m sure there was more but I can’t recall it all and anyway, I’ll write about this session properly when I get back from my travels.

My mother had called me during the session so I called her back to see what she wanted when I left. Mr Director-Person had finally responded.

My analysis of the NICE guidelines etc is apparently quite correct, but – it now emerges – the NICE guidelines don’t automatically apply in Northern Ireland. Well, that’s brilliant, isn’t it? Great job. How eminently rea-fucking-surring to know that we are safeguarded in this country as well as the rest of the UK. OUT-FUCKING-STANDING.

Blah blah blah…we are developing a PD service…we welcome “service user” (I fucking hate that term) involvement…please register your interest with this tosser at this hospital…

Readers, I will. In fact, if they do indeed accept me on board, I will turn it into a personal crusade. I will twat the system from inside the bastarding system.

Blah de blah…[C] and [NewVCB] have agreed to put you under the care of either a CPN or a mental health social worker…details to be worked out closer to the time…

Go and fuck yourselves. What is some CPN going to fucking do? Remind me it might be a good idea if I fucking washed occasionally? Attempt to patronise me with CBfuckingT?! No. No. I need psychotherapy. If I am not to receive psychotherapy, then you can all just go and die, you supercilious, self-interested bunch of despicable cunts from hell.

So that, dearest readers, is the latest. I am sure I’ll calm down a bit – but probably only when we finally reach our apartments tonight, as hanging around airports is supremely frustrating, and flying is supremely boring.

I have got a data abroad package on my phone so will probably be about occasionally on Twitter – I might even post here if you’re (un)lucky. Otherwise, thank you all for reading and thank you for your unwavering support and friendship.

Much love

Pandora x