Plus Bye Mum! and The Obligatory ‘I Had an Appointment’ Post.

Let’s start with the first one.

Bye Mum!

One of two things has happened as regards my last post, in which I speculated that my mother was reading this infernal bollocks that I call Confessions of a Serial Insomniac.  Either I have been suffering from a paranoid psychosis (or, in less hyperbolic terms, just paranoia) regarding all the reasons that I thought she was reading it, or she has become shockingly technically savvy over the last few months.

I went to her house this morning after an appointment with Lovely GP and, when her attention was distracted, I searched her history, cookies and Temporary Internet Files on both Firefox and Internet Explorer.  There was no evidence of any visitations to this site at all, save for one single cookie which is probably from a time I wrote a post from her PC (as it had some references to an upload, to which, of course, she would not have had access.  For the record, I thought I had deleted all reference to that session, but meh).  When I say ‘searched’, I actually mean that; I used the built-in search boxes to search for terms such as ‘serial insomniac’ or ‘confessions’, rather than really rip the piss out of her privacy by wading through each single thing.

So seemingly I stand corrected on my earlier accusations.  Mother, I apologise.  Even though you aren’t reading this and don’t know about it.  Hmm.  Sorry anyway.

The Obligatory ‘I Had an Appointment’ (Part of the) Post

I saw LGP at the unGodly hour of 8.50am.  OK, so for a normal person, that’s not that bad, but I’m still registered at my mother’s old surgery, and since I live at A’s in the main, it involved a drive to the other side of town and then a hike up the motorway for a while.

I realised with horror last night that I had failed to fill in a form for the admin staff at the surgery.  Rather than do any work themselves when they receive DLA claims in from Social Security, they write out to the applicant asking them how their disability or illness affects them.  To be honest this suits me fine as they don’t really know how being mental affects me, and of course I do, but nonetheless I’d received the form the other week and had kept putting it completion of it off, despite their request to return it promptly.  I therefore sat in LGP’s car park immediately before my appointment and scribbled all the bollocks I could think of down – psychosis, dissociation, failure to engage in everyday tasks, severe anxiety, major depression, self-harm etc.  I hope I’ve covered everything.

Anyway, the main reason I went to see LGP was to scrounge Diazepam due to the now absolutely-imminent abandonment of me by C(unt).  LGP was sympathetic towards me given C/The Trust’s unprofessionalism, and seemed to understand that I have been completely retraumatised by the experience; however, the poor sod seemed unable to do anything about it.  He asked about NewVCB, and I said that she too was horrified about what C/The Trust are doing, but that she also seems uterly powerless to do anything about it (though she did try to dissuade C from cutting the process short, but the miserable git chose to refuse to listen to her).

The last time I saw LGP he had suggested going to see the Nexus Institute in the wake of the whole disaster that my therapy with C has become.  As I noted in the post in question, by psychological association I’ve developed an aversion to the Institute due to a really antiquated encounter with some NHS assessment bitch, but nonetheless I have been thinking about the suggestion and have perhaps warmed a little to it.  My concern now is that they offer, according to C anyway, a maximum of 24 sessions, which seems hideously inadequate to me.  When LGP raised the issue again this morning, I said so to him.  I pointed out that I felt that about 15 – 20 sessions was the minimum required to open up to a new person – and that was when the relationship was a good one.

He said that his experience of patients using the Institute’s services was that they had managed to actually achieve a lot in that timeframe, therefore opining that it was at least worth a shot.  He told me that they have a waiting list as they genuinely seem to be good at what they do.

Fair enough, but I bet they have never met a cynical, snide fuck like me before.

Anyway, it was left with me telling him I would, indeed, do as I was told for once and contact them for an appointment.  I am shitting myself at the mere thought of this, so how the fuck will I feel when I actually get round to the fucking meeting?!  And my concern is also this – my relationship (or, rather, the premature cessation thereof) with C has traumatised me so severely that that’s yet another thing for a new therapist to have to deal with.  It’s not all about the sexual abuse in the first place – it never was.  Now there’s just another layer of trauma-shite to add to:

• the sex abuse
• the bullying
• the whole dreadful saga with my ex that I’ve still never written about here
• the fact that I still weep for my grandfather nearly 12 years after his death
• V’s abject cuntery towards me
• V’s abject cuntery towards my mother
• V’s relatives’ abject cuntery towards me and, to a lesser extent, my mother
• an issue I’ve never discussed here pertaining to how my mother treated me when I first manifested severe depressive symptoms as a teenager
• general life disillusionment that, unresolved, simply leads to further crippling depressions.

Can a therapist trained in helping people overcome sexual abuse deal with all that bollocks as well?  And do they have any expertise in treating people fucked up the arse by the NHS and being more of a mess as a result?  (Actually, they probably do; I’m sure my situation isn’t terribly uncommon).

Of course, the long-term plan is for me to enter analysis, but at least Nexus are free (donations notwithstanding), so I shall try them first.  I just hope that the limited timeframe afforded is not going to end up with a repeat of my current therapeutic disaster…more psychotherapy-induced trauma?  Oh yes please, world – give it to me, yeah!!!

Anyway, I risk never getting to the point if I don’t stop blathering about points made a zillion times before.  I led LGP to believe* that I was having a breakdown within a breakdown over the end of things with C and begged him for Diazepam.  ”The last time I had any was May!” I pleaded.  ”Please!”

It was truly pathetic.

He checked my notes and confirmed that May was the last time I was issued with a script for the beautiful, wonderful, amazing, fabulous tablets, and noted that I am “clearly not abusing them.”  No shit, mate.  He agreed to give me some more, though I was disgusted when I left the surgery and read the prescription that he had only issued 14!  I have seven left from the previous script, so there’s 21 – that’s only a fucking week’s worth!

To be fair, he said that if I was having a really hard time, that I was to ring him and he’d let me have some more.  You can be sure that I will be “having a really hard time”.  I feel that I need to hoard them, to have a proper size of a stash – just in case.  You never know when they’ll be needed, do you?  On that note, I observed with amusement that the back of the script paper now instructs you not to heard medication, as apparently that’s stealing money from the NHS or something.  This caused me much merriment – I hoard like fuck.  Too bad.  They failed to give me what I needed, so if I’m ‘stealing’ from the fuckers (such melodrama!) then I feel like a Robin Hood character, and am glad to be involved in screwing them.  Fuck them.

LGP asked the old rote question of whether or not I would overdose on the Diazepam.  I said that I wouldn’t, and then proceeded to tell him that I’d had my stomach pumped before and had no wish to relive the heinous experience.

“But are you having suicidal thoughts?” he asked.

I laughed in his face.  ”Of course I’m having suicidal thoughts,” I chuckled.  ”My entire life revolves around suicidal ideation.  But I won’t overdose, don’t worry.  I know how to do myself in and, unless you plan really carefully, that is not an outcome facilitated by overdoses.”

He raised his eyebrows, intrigued.  ”You’ve become something of an encyclopaedia about mental health issues,” he said, smiling.

“Well, I read a suicide newsgroup, so I know a bit about suicide methods,” I admitted.

He nodded.  ”But it’s not just that,” he went on, “you’re very self-aware, aware of what’s going on with you, and you’re extremely articulate about it all.”

I couldn’t help but blush.  That was nice.  I think.

He asked if my interpersonal relationships were of a satisfactory standard, and I responded that I had the support of A, a mass group of wondrous online friends, and a number of non-online friends that were supporting me unwaveringly.  I also told him that relations with my mother are at a reasonable point, though at the time I was still paranoid about what she was or wasn’t reading.

“It’s not that I think you should be grateful for the situation you’re in,” LGP said, “of course you shouldn’t.  But at least you do have a support network, it’s better than absolutely nothing.”

I suppose it is.  I asked if I could see him in a month as support additional to NewVCB and he said that of course I could.  He then mused for a second, and when asked what he had been considering, he told me that they also have counsellors that operate in the surgery.

“However,” he said, “I don’t think it would be appropriate for you.  Firstly, your issues are clearly very complex.  And secondly, you are clearly…” he searched for the words “…at a level above that sort of therapy.”

I regarded my lovely (but, alas, ginger) doctor with interest.  Was he implying that I am more intelligent than his almost-certainly-CBT-practising staff?

Mwhahaha!

He took my blood pressure, which he felt was pretty high.  He reckons that this is generally the usual PANIC PANIC that people get themselves into when in medical appointments, as well as stress over C.  ”I suppose I should also recommend losing some weight though,” he added, clearly uncomfortably.

I advised him that in the last year I have lost over four stone (yes, those of you that met me on Saturday – that does mean that I was even more the size of a mansion a year ago) and am continuing to lose pounds.  He was beside himself with joy (!) and kept congratulating me over and over, which was in hilarious stark contrast to the battering I took from his cunt of a colleague in December.

I left with the Diazepam script, a promise to him to contact Nexus and an agreement that we would meet again in about a month.  Ah.  Sighs.  I do like LGP.

I went to the chemist next door to get my medication, and whilst waiting looked around for other bollocks to spend money on.  I chose some Rescue Remedy, to aid the workings of the Diazepam, plus some anti-IBS stuff and Pro Plus.  Then I saw Seri-Strips, bandages etc – and I jumped on them.  I don’t feel like self-harming at the minute, but who knows what tomorrow will bring?  Better to be prepared, because it could go totally tits up after my final session with C(unt).

Which leads me to…

The Final Countdown: The Eve of the End of Therapy

So.  Here we finally are.  All my efforts to fix this dire situation have been a waste.  After 10.20am tomorrow, I will never see C again.

I look through my archives on this subject and actually find myself laughing at some of the histrionics displayed therein.  Wa wa, I can’t cope without him.  Wa wa, my life is over.  Wa wa, I’m so miserable, I can’t cope, please kill me someone please!  Tonight I feel…

…

…

…

…ambivalent.  Fine.  Asi es la vida.  I don’t care.

Now don’t get me wrong.  I am still positively full of righteous anger and indignation at the appalling way I have been treated by the Trust, and I don’t intend to just lie back down under it and let the fuckers abuse me more.  However, as regards C as an individual specifically, I really don’t feel anything much about our soon-to-be-permanent-separation.  * In this sense, my “I’m having a breakdown within a breakdown” performance to LGP was perhaps slightly exaggerated in pursuit of drugs.  Maybe I should contact Narcotics Anonymous whilst I’m in the process of contacting new therapists?!

There are two probable reasons for this.

One: I have already done most of my grieving.  About a fortnight ago – after a session itself after an unpleasant meeting with NewVCB – I was in a particularly bad state, so much so that I caused a fuss on Twitter, apparently having implied I was going to do myself in.  That was a bad day, but it was one amongst many.  I have shed millions of tears over this and whined and bitched and moaned about it here so much that it will no doubt seem like another blog once I desist from such shittery.  My pain was so real, so deep, so astoundingly visceral – and now, it’s just not.  It has apparently played itself out.

Two:  a limited number of people know this, simply as I haven’t written about any of my sessions with C in five or six weeks, but in that time my view of him has shifted almost 180 degrees.  I know that the fault in this whole sorry mess is only partially his, but he has become the fall-person for my disdain and derision.  I used to respect him greatly and I was very fond of him, and that was on top of my issues of transference and attachment.  Now, I kind of feel like he’s…I don’t know…a fly or something.  He’s there and he’s actually rather irritating and frustrating, and you feel like swiping him – but, ultimately, he’s something of an irrelevance, his existence little more than a passing inconvenience.  And that existence, in terms of my life anyhow, will cease to be in 13 or so hours.

It should have been different.  Of course it should have been different.  There is a small part of me that feels sad that I have come to view him thus, and as stated I know that it’s mostly not his fault.  But this is the reality of things as they stand; he is the figurehead for every failure I’ve ever experienced thanks to his employers.  Poor C.  But not poor C too.  Who cares?

Is this a defence mechanism?  Probably.  And it could unravel completely in the morning and I might be a suicidal, dissociated, agitated mess.  For now, though, for this one important evening, I am OK.  Surprisingly but genuinely OK.

Now.  Who likes my new logo?!

Pan x

Well…I don’t really hate this blog.  As I’ve said several times, it is in fact my pride and joy – or, at least, what has gone before has made up what I call my pride and joy.  I don’t feel very proud or very joyful at the minute, though it’s not the blog’s fault, obviously; it’s mine.  I keep saying to myself, “you’ve got to write about this,” or “you should say a few words about that,” and then I look at the screen of the laptop, poise my fingers across the keyboard’s home keys – and everything goes blank.

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.

I have been trying to review last week’s session with C in my usual detail, but I’ve had a very stressful day (gruesome CAB appointment, and much Disraeli trouble ) and that, coupled with my ungraciously low mood and lethargy of late, has left me weak and defeated.  I’m going to eat and try writing again, but it may just have to wait.  As the wonderful Splintered Ones is always good enough to remind me, it comes when it comes and can’t be forced

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.

I was a complete bitch to C last week. I just sat there and insulted him for about half the session – perhaps more – and he didn’t really deserve any of it. It’s not his fault he has to abandon me at the end of the summer, and even though my rants weren’t necessarily focused around that issue, that was surely what was driving them. Unsurprisingly, he appears to believe that my reacting angrily to him is a defence mechanism to deflect from the sorrow and despair that I feel regarding the imminence of our separation.

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.

WARNING: RANT

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

Those that follow the Twitter stream that I have allied with this blog will know that I did not intend to write a blog today (LATER: yesterday). I was feeling a bit low after CVM called me this morning to report that her father had sadly died early this morning (LATER: well – technically now yesterday morning). However, sitting here brooding won’t do either her nor me any good, so I decided to go ahead and write it anyway.

CVM is very much in my thoughts and I wish I could do something to ease the pain of her and her family. I am publicly sending my sincere condolences here. <3 xxx

—

I know that I have an annoying tendency to open these posts on C with, "today was weird," or some such. Well, Thursday really was strange. It was totally bizarre. C was evidently puzzled by certain directions it took, and when I told him at the end that it had been “weird,” he actually responded by saying that it had, indeed, been “different” (for what it’s worth I feel reassured rather than invalidated by this).

I’m not sure if the written word can adequately convey the oddness of the session, because although it can look disjointed, it would take a better writer than I to convey the sudden and sharp shifts in mood, the nuances of the spoken tones, the randomness and subtlety of the non-verbal communication that took place. Nevertheless, as ever, I shall try.

It was very much a meeting of three parts. During the first – I dunno? – maybe 10 or 15 minutes I sat there petulantly, stubbornly avoiding his gaze and giving one word answers (at best) to any questions he posed. For once he had the decency to open proceedings, and not piss about waiting for me to do so. He said he was aware that part of me was attached to “here” (this annoyed me, though I did not say anything to him – I am not attached to his fucking office for Christ’s sake, I am attached to him!) and that I was concerned about the cessation of therapy. Wow, insightful. I’m absolutely profoundly impressed, Dr fucking Freud-Einstein-Mary Poppins.

I’m ranting about him now for stating the obvious, but I also got really pissed off when he strode into the territory of conjecture. He said he was also aware that I was unhappy that I only had 50 minutes of his time each week and that I was annoyed that I couldn’t just turn up or phone him or whatever outside that time.

This sent me into a rage. At no point have I ever said such a thing. Struggling to control my anger, I snarled that his comment was unfair, and that he was putting words in my mouth. I asked him to exemplify exactly when I had made these assertions to him.

He admitted that I hadn’t, and moved on, but I think I now realise where he got this from. Some months ago – I can’t find the relevant post offhand, sorry – I had asked him who I was meant to contact in an urgent situation (because if my life depends on it I still want to avoid the fucking Crisis Team). Could I have a CPN, a social worker – anyone at the two CMHTs based at C’s hospital? I don’t remember his answer but it was some nonsense about ringing Lifeline or the Samaritans. Yeah, thanks C. So he had obviously read this request – a reasonable one, in my view, given that CMHTs are meant to be multi-disciplinary and he is only one tiny part of them – as a demand for his attention outside of our sessions. This was profoundly irritating. If he had failed to understand my question, then he should have asked for fucking clarification.

Anyway. To follow on from the uncertainty of the last couple of weeks, he brought up the matter of how long he can continue to act as my psychotherapist. Apparently, he can offer 10 week blocks, with four weeks at the end to deal with the closing of the relationship. Fair enough? Well, no, not really; he can only offer me two of these blocks – ie. 24 further weeks (beginning on Thursday 10 December) in total. Now, that will amount to something like 57 total sessions (including the three assessment sessions at the beginning and the four ‘leaving’ sessions at the end) which ostensibly sounds fair enough. Unfortunately for me, BPD is well known to take a very minimum of a year to treat properly, and usually three or four.

I didn’t tell him this as, in the past, every time I’ve made reference to my diagnoses he’s come off with (or at least inferred) some crap about fixating on labels. Heard it all before, C. So instead I asked what I was supposed to do if things weren’t adequately improved by that point.

He said, “I would expect you to have made progress by then – I feel you have made progress.”

Great – I’m so glad one of us does. Most reassuring. I pressed on. “But what if I haven’t?”

He said something suggesting that I shouldn’t be expecting cures from psychotherapy, at which point I interrupted him by telling him I didn’t even believe in cures and, in fact, didn’t especially want them. My question, I insisted, was in the context of alleviating the worst of the psychological pain and providing me with coping mechanisms and greater understanding that I could take onward in life. What if that had not been achieved within his stated timeframe?

I honestly don’t recall his answer, but there was a strong inference in whatever it was that if we were unable to progress by then that there was effectively nothing he could do for me (an assertion with which I do not agree, but what do I know – I’m just the stupid mental that sits opposite him).

No arguing with that, then. That’ll be it. The end. Finito. Fuck you, SI. In response, I just sat there looking at the ground for a while. It’s difficult to articulate how I was feeling. It was a veritable cocktail of fear, dread, hurt, anger, bitterness and depression. I fought, ironically using the breathing exercises that C had so fervently espoused, against tears and rants. I fought them because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that this abject rejection completely fucking cut me to the core. But he knew. Of course he did.

After a minute or two, he proceeded with that usual question of ultimate annoyance, “how do you feel about that?”

One thing I’ll say in his defence was that at least he was completely straight for once. Often he dodges and dives from material that he doesn’t really want to bring up with me for fear of setting me off (or such is my supposition for why he avoids it), but on this occasion he was upfront and honest, and through my anger and hurt, I felt appreciation for that. I told him so.

He told me to think about this over the next week (“but not so much that you end up ruminating on it” – as if that wouldn’t happen!) and bring all of my thoughts and feelings on the matter to him in the next session. He said, “you’ll probably feel anger, frustration…”

Once again, I got really mad at him for putting words in my mouth, so he desisted from that angle of probing. Whilst it will indubitably be the case that I am angry – I already fucking am – and whilst it was indubitably the case that, in an ideal world, I could phone and/or meet him outside of scheduled sessions, how dare he presume any of that. If he wants to know my thinking on these matters he should fucking well ask me – it’s not like he’s never asked before. He shouldn’t just assume that his suspicions are gospel, regardless of the probability of their accuracy.

During the silence that ensued, I fought a mental battle with myself. One side was crying out, “but that’s another six months! You should be grateful!”

The other responded, “the NHS has failed you yet again, SI. They are ignoring all research on your diagnoses.”

For once, the negative side was, I am convinced, the more rational. BPD takes a long time to properly treat. It is as simple as that.

Finally I said to him, “why do you do this job?”

I knew he would respond with a question, and indeed he didn’t disappoint.

“Can you tell me why it is it important for you to know that?”

“I’m curious.”

Once more, I knew he would fail to answer, and instead question me again. Once more, I was correct.

“But what is it that gives rise to that curiosity?”

I laughed cynically in his face. “Just answer the fucking question,” I demanded. “Please.”

He looked away and appeared thoughtful for a minute. Eventually he said, “because I think it is of value.”

I nodded non-committally and waited for the backlash.

Well, apparently my questioning his decision to practice clinical psychology ties in with my intense rage towards him / the health service (because that couldn’t possibly be fucking justified could it? Oh wait, it could!) and my assertions last week that he was a ‘headfucking sadist’.

I winced. “Yes, sorry about that,” I muttered awkwardly.

“No, no,” he insisted. “You should bring that anger with you.”

I ignored him and said that it must be something of a nightmare to spend an hour with me every week.

He sort of laughed and said that I have to spend all the time with myself. (This could be read as an invalidating statement, which it shouldn’t be – there was more to it than this, but I don’t recall the specifics. Whatever the case, the point was actually made more sympathetically than I’ve made it sound).

“Yes, that is a disability,” I mused. “But honestly – I’ve been such an angry child here recently, it must be shit for you.”

I saw his eyebrow quiver slightly at my use of the term ‘angry child’. Excellent. It had been intended to pique his interest.

“I’ve been reading about schema models recently,” I proclaimed, triumphantly.

This is where part two of the discussion began. Let’s call it Intellectualise my Mentalism.

The other week, when I was convinced my therapy with C was coming to a dramatic and premature halt in January, I rushed to the Yellow Pages looking for suitable therapists. I was looking primarily for practitioners of psychodynamic therapy, as I have been receiving from C, because it’s the only type that I have found remotely effective to date. However, I was open to exploring both schema and gestalt therapy, having read quite a bit on both, and found practitioners of both in the vicinity. As two major studies have demonstrated its effectiveness for all symptoms of BPD (unlike stupid DBT), I have more faith in schema therapy, even though it does involve some wanky (if apparently advanced) CBT, for which (as you know) I have no time, so – convinced I was in imminent danger of abandonment from C – I Googled “Schema therapy borderline personality disorder” and came up with this book. On a whim, I bought it.

The book contends that people with BPD have five main strands to their character:

• The healthy adult (the authors admit this seems an unlikely component, but make the reasonably fair point that many with BPD are not always going mental. Not that they put it quite like that, of course).
• Detached protector – this mode sees the patient protecting the harmed brats that form part of her consciousness.
• Punitive parent – “everything is my fault” mode. Must punish myself. I am usually pretty good at this, especially in session.
• Angry or impulsive child – furious, mainly as a defence mechanism. It is convinced it will be fucked over. It is also angry that its needs / rights are not met. (I am a walking stereotype).
• Abandoned or abused child – alone, no one cares about it, whinges, cries, blah de blah.

I told C that today I was the protector. I was avoiding his questions, getting irritated when he probed me – classic protector traits, according to the book.

We had a discussion around the whole concept of schemas, schema therapy and its development, which to my amazement resulted in him bringing up the term ‘borderline personality disorder’ in a completely unsolicited way. He went on to explain the schemas seen in BPD in more detail, to the absolute delight of my ears and my mind.

Feeling that we were on something of a discursive roll, I presented him with a print-out of this post from Kathy Broady’s blog. I had analysed the piece bit by bit in terms of its applicability to me.

I pointed out that it was written by a DID therapist, however, and that therefore it might not all apply directly to me.

He sort of shook his head and said, “there’s a debate in psychiatry and psychology as to whether or not DID and BPD exist on a continuum. At the very least, there’s often an overlap of symptoms. So therefore I’m sure some of this stuff can apply.”

(For the record I think I’d identified about 18 of the 20 signs Kathy listed as being applicable to me to one extent or another. Fuck! Is there more I don’t know about?!).

Satisfied with this response, I gestured for C to go ahead and read the list. Not wanting to sit there like a numpty whilst he read it, I stood up and looked out the window.

I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was looking at me, puzzled. I turned to him.

“What, am I not allowed to stand up now?”

“Well, yeaa-ahhh, you are,” he began, doubtfully, “but I’m just wondering why you’re standing up.”

“You’re reading that, so I’m going to look out the window,” I replied.

“I think you’re trying to distance yourself from the material in this article,” he told me. “It would be better if you sat down and faced it.”

So, the mere gesture of looking out the window is reflective of an entrenched tendency to avoid confronting one’s problems, is it? Well, fuck me, I’ve heard it all now. I was going to argue, but decided against it, not really seeing any point. I made an arm gesture of “you win” and sat down, internally laughing at how absurd I felt his deep reading of my meaningless action had been.

C read the list – to my annoyance, he read a lot of it out loud – then paused on one particular point. I don’t remember which one it was, but I’d provided an ‘analysis’ at the end along the lines of, “I do this, I do that, blah de blah.”

“Blah de blah?” he queried. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just flippancy.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “but where does that flippancy come from?”

“It’s stylistic,” I argued (I’m sure most readers of this blog will agree that I have a penchant for flippant remarks). “It’s just my writing style. You haven’t read any of my writing…”

“But…” he went on.

Enter stage three of the session – the mad, maniacal bit.

“Right,” I said authoritatively. “You don’t believe me that that’s how I write? Well, let me show you.”

From my bag I pulled out a print out of this post, my (latest) rant on the NHS. I began randomly reading some of the more colourful parts of the rants, in a deliberately exaggerated and dramatic voice. When I finally drew breath at the part where I talked about reading Grey’s Anatomy at the age of five, the completely befuzzled C interrupted me, exclaiming, “what’s happening here today?!”

He looked completely bemused, and on reflection I can’t say I blame him. It was a bit of a random tangent.

I defended myself on the grounds that I wanted to demonstrate to him that the flippant comments he’d seen on the trauma list were sod all in comparison to the flippant comments made by me elsewhere.

“But,” he said, metaphorically stroking his chin, “we’ve been all over the place today [I'm not sure that he phrased it quite like that]. For the first while I thought you were quite upset, quite agitated…now I’m not sure what you are…angry? And in the middle we perhaps intellectualised matters a little.”

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry!” I cried. “I led you into that.”

“These meetings are a co-construction,” he insisted. “I’m just as culpable for any straying off course as you are – we just have to be careful not to head into intellectual territory too much.”

He pondered for a minute and, referencing point 10 on Kathy’s list of trauma signs, said, “your rush to apologise just now ties in with that.” He noted that I had commented on the list that my self-blame wasn’t excessive because that for which I blame myself is, in fact, my fault.

“You do realise, objectively, that it is excessive, don’t you?” C asked.

“No no no, it’s my fault. It’s my fault,” I contended. “Just now I seduced you into that discussion on academic psychology. It was my fault, I’m sorry.”

Readers, why – WHY?! – did I have to use the word ‘seduce’? Why? A dozen other words would have sufficed. It just rolled off my tongue, as hyperbolic metaphors often seem to do.

He raised his eyebrow and narrowed his eye slightly. “Seduced?” he enquired.

Fuck. FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK! Now he thinks I want to fucking fuck him. Fuck fuck fuck.

I felt my cheeks turn red in utter mortification and in my rush to defend my use of the term, on the grounds that it was figurative, probably made an utter tit of myself – thus reinforcing any belief he might have that my transference is of an erotic nature.

Fucky fuck, shit and damn. I did try my best to explain what I’d meant, but I was flustered, and in any case it probably looked like a case of the lady doth protest too much. So eventually I gave up, looked down and gestured for him to continue to read the trauma list.

Thankfully for once he had the grace to do as he was told and not press me. He read on in silence this time, and when he’d finished I asked him if he thought the points included were applicable to me.

He said that he thought they were, and indeed that a lot of it had already come out in therapy and that we were beginning to address those issues.

He handed me the list back, and I read over it. For some reason I then went into a dysphoric but energetic rant against myself, telling C that I was “nothing but histrionic” for thinking any of the list was applicable to me, and indeed for bringing it to him.

He listened to and watched me in a kind of bewildered way. Perhaps he’s not that familiar with mixed states.

“Well, this has been weird,” I declared.

He cleared his throat, as if for dramatic effect. “It’s certainly been…” – he searched for the word – “…different,” he acknowledged finally, with a slight wryness I thought, which I found bizarrely reassuring.

“I was nervous about telling you about the schema book,” I admitted to him, rather randomly. “I’ve always got the feeling from you that you think to so much as mention a diagnosis is to fixate on a label.”

“Not necessarily,” he began. “It’s very important not to fixate on it, indeed. You mustn’t allow yourself to be ‘built’ around a diagnosis. But it can have benefits, yes.”

“I’ve found it helpful,” I said. “For one thing it’s enabled me to connect with a range of people who have been a great support network.”

“Good,” he declared. “No, I have no problem with diagnoses. It’s just important that you know that it’s not ‘borderline personality disorder’ that comes into this room, it’s [my name].”

I nodded. I think I do keep a sense of perspective on the diagnoses; if someone asks me about myself, unless it has been directly in the context of mental illness, I’ll usually tell them I’m a rock bird with a love for reading, writing, pubs, sci-fi and Newcastle United. The illnesses are part of me, and I am not ashamed of having them, but they’re certainly not the whole story.

As I was about to leave, C asked me to think over the prospect of there being a maximum of 24 weeks of the process left in order for us to discuss it at the next session. He all but begged me to “bring the anger with [me].” I protested that I couldn’t do so with absolute impunity, as I couldn’t face being heard screaming at him by those in the offices adjoining his.

He looked extremely taken aback at this, which I still don’t fully understand. I have social anxiety for Christ’s sake, does he honestly expect that I can allow anyone but him to be party to my rants? In any case, his secretary phoned today. Having convinced myself at the weekend that he was dead (whilst simultaneously reckoning that he wasn’t dead, but nevertheless believing that he was), I was horrified about what she had to say. Mercifully, so far C is not dead and will see me on Thursday at the normal time – just not in the normal place, due to building work. He is temporarily moving back to VCB’s stomping ground.

In a way, it’s worse to lose it with him there than in his own office. The office in which I suspect I will meet him is next door to the one VCB shares with other psychiatrists. These cunts all have it in their power to section me should I really lose it, which is hopefully unlikely but frankly not impossible, especially with ‘They’ still hovering about from time to time (though wouldn’t you know it, the anti-psychotic has seemingly killed Tom. Just my luck to lose the ‘good’ psychosis and retain the ‘bad’). On the other hand, an advantage of this location is that the building is attached to the day bin and adjacent to the actual bin, so hopefully they’ll be used to having crazies losing it on them fairly often.

As for now, I don’t know what I think. The argument is still ongoing in my head – More NHS Fuckovery, I’m Calling an Advocacy Service vs. Well, It’s Another Potential Six Months, Be Grateful. The truth is I feel both at the same time. A little bit positive, but more than a little bit lost.