This week has sucked, and I am glad it is nearing its completion. I’m actually in a fairly good mood now as I write this, but it’s the first day that I have actually felt that right from getting up.
As you will know from Monday’s post, I’d been in bad form regarding the fucked-up status of my relationship with the psychiatrist. However, no sooner had I published that post than an email arrived from the Horse that put me in an even worse mood. My first reaction was of panic, but it was shortly replaced by anger.
Prior to Monday, the latest in the work saga had been that Horse had asked me to yet again outline any “aggravating factors” that had occurred in the workplace prior to my absence. I had already done this back in March, and received a reply that was nothing but an unconstructive and condescending refutation of my comments. So, when this second request came, I had simply outlined a few management issues that needed to be addressed.
They have agreed to increased supervision in the immediate aftermath of any return to work, as well as a phased returned facilitated by payment commensurate with hours of work rather than by use of annual leave to cover the out of office hours. Yet again, though, everything else was refuted. Frankly, it seems to me that the Horse is actually too braindead to even understand what I was saying. I would have given my boss, with whom the Horse seems to be working closely, more credit, but I think that this is her first experience of managing an absence of this length and as such she seems to be delegating most of the responsibility to Personnel.
Work have picked the wrong person to fuck with. A’s job is writing employment law. His brother, DI, is an CAB advisor. His best friend, W, is involved at a senior level with a charity law unit in a well-regarded university (my employers are a charity). My mother is a former Personnel Officer. My best friend, D, is a Personnel journalist. One of my Twitter friends and regular commentators here, bourach, is a union rep. I know where the fuck I stand, and if I don’t, I can soon fucking find out.
In exploring the relevant legislation, A has commented that I would probably need to put up more of a fight in regards to what would be considered reasonable by the ‘reasonable man on the street’, especially under the Disability Discrimination Act, if I were seriously to take them on. Initially, I had not wanted to fuck the office over so hadn’t bothered to argue with them. However, the more I hear from the Horse, and the more my boss doesn’t bother to stand up for me, the less I care. I know things are over now. I will almost certainly not be returning. It’s illegal for them to give me a shit reference on the grounds of my disability, and I will be seeking assurances from the fuckstains that this does not happen. The point I’m making is that I no longer feel I have much to lose by fucking back with them.
To demonstrate that she speaks in Fuckwit rather than English, I am including a few excerpts from her email. Except for my  points, these extracts are exactly as they appeared in the email, though I have bolded the especially hilarious bits. Sigh. I thought they still taught grammar in schools?
SI, as explained in previous correspondence, a priority system would be introduced so that [managers] and [others] to adhered too (however there may be exceptions to this)
As you can understand that we wish to cause least distribution to the team, we would appreciate if GP appointments were made at the start of the day as I am lead to believe that your GP is based in [some distance away].
[Re:my request that work was clearly delineated between my assistant an me] Unfortunately we can not adhered too at all time.
Well, no, you can’t ‘adhered to’, you stupid bitch. Your contention that the organisation wishes to make ‘reasonable adjustments’ to accommodate my illness is frankly amusing given your continuous refutations of my comments.
Her constant use of my name at the beginning of sentences (if you could even call them that) is infuriating. How dare she patronise me in this fashion? How dare she? I can almost guarantee that my intellect is about double hers. I am also willing to bet substantially that my qualifications are more significant than hers. Even if not, I think the pathetic construction of her correspondence just proves that she is a dumb, fuckwitted moron. I would have thought that it was key in a Personnel job to be able to communicate effectively. Apparently not in my organisation. It doesn’t matter that my dismissal is imminent anymore, as I was wasted on the cockheads anyway, it seems.
She also demanded written evidence regarding Dr C. She failed to specify the nature of the written evidence she requires. I am now of the belief that they don’t believe I have seen her or that I have been diagnosed as I have. A says this is paranoia and that it is standard practice to ask for written evidence for everything. Maybe so, but they have not asked for anything of this nature previously. In A’s view, this exemplifies the incompetence of the Personnel function in the organisation. Which is probably fair in relation to some of its members, most notably the Horse.
Anyway, this email arrived on Monday, which was 20th July. As per the Horse’s previous email a few weeks ago, I understood that I was due to attend Occupational Health the following day, ie. Tuesday 21st. The Horse then said in the email referenced above that the appointment was on Thursday 23rd. Great work, Horse. You’re obviously competent enough to keep track of your own emails. It turned out it was Tuesday, but I had to call OHS themselves to determine this.
I emailed her back and was frankly just on the borderline of civil. Well, that’s not true; I am always very careful in my correspondence with them not to be a cunt, as they would indubitably use it against me, so it was still polite and professional. However, there was a sneering, cynical tone to it that adequately if subtlety conveyed just how fucked off I am with the whole bloody thing. AC told me it was a bit “cheeky” (but justifiably so); Mum and A said it wasn’t cheeky exactly, but it did make clear that I was sick of the way they were treating me. Good. That is what was intended.
It is the tip of the iceberg, anyway. A and I are going to work on an email to the Horse outlining exactly why her shite contentions fail, and why what she perceives as “reasonable” is in actual fact not at all reasonable. We are going to do this before she contacts me again to eliminate the risk of a knee-jerk emotional response to her inevitable imbecility, and it’s going to be fucking brilliant.
Anyhow, despite my anger, Monday evening / night was relatively OK. Without the sleeping pill (it was my week off them until last night), I didn’t sleep, as ever, but I didn’t go mental either.
This was not the case on Tuesday afternoon. I worked myself into a major panic regarding the impending OHS appointment, which culminated in some fun with a knife. There are at least 10 random slashes across my arms, legs, breasts and stomach, not to mention the delightful words of “vile”, “fail” and “die” across my lower abdomen. In keeping with previous incidences of self-harm, I then calmed down. For a while anyway.
I was laughably early for the appointment, so sat in my car playing games on my phone for a while. I was fine until I actually got into the building and then I just lost it. I took a Valium, but to be honest by the time it started having any effect, I was out of there – not that one Valium tends to make any difference anyway.
I was, fairly quickly, approached by a tall, fairly good-looking middle-aged bloke with grey hair. This exacerbated my panic as I was expecting the woman that I’d seen the last time I was at occupational health; at least I was familiar with her.
He introduced himself as the doctor I was to be seeing. I could barely speak and when he held out his hand I could barely shake it. I was shaking, stuttering, rocking back and forth and generally behaving like a loon. I even burst into tears at one point, for which I then found myself apologising.
It was telling that the only notes the bloke actually took were regarding my current medications. He literally wrote nothing else, as I recall – why would he bother? It was self-evident that I am mad, why bother noting that information? I don’t really remember a great deal of the conversation, but I do recall telling him that work didn’t believe me about the BPD / bipolar diagnosis and that they were out to get me. I also recall him asking if I had been to university, and my telling him that I ended up having to leave my Masters degree with a post-graduate diploma because I had a previous breakdown at that point. He said quietly, and with evident sincerity, that he was “sorry to hear that”. In fact, he seemed so genuine and sympathetic in saying so, that I thought he was going to come around the desk and put his arms around me. I also admitted to the self-harm, some of which I even showed him,and the recent hilarious mini-suicide attempt. I told him about the trouble with the shrinks that is causing such extreme fuckuppery at present.
I have to say he was lovely. I felt that not only did he understand the nature of the diagnoses and the symptoms thereof, he actually seemed genuinely sorry that I was experiencing them and, reading between the lines (although he didn’t actually say so), I did get the impression that he wasn’t overly impressed with the behaviour office.
Although he was nice, the meeting was essentially a waste of my petrol. I was there less than 10 minutes, with his view being very clear; there is no way I am well enough to return at the minute. He didn’t put a timeframe on it the way his colleague had done the last time I was there, but did say he would probably see me again.
It’ll be interesting to see what Horse and friends make of what he says.
I was fine on Tuesday evening, but after going to bed I became progressively mental. Well, I say ‘mental’, but that’s probably not true; it was more real, hard-core depression (is it the same thing?).
I admitted defeat. Work had won. Georgie had won. V had won. Maisie’s husband had won. The school bullies had won. My ex had won. I had failed, epically.
I ceased to care. Let C section me. Let him not section me. Let the shrinks abandon me. Let them not abandon me. Let me die, let me live, I don’t care. I just didn’t care. Whatever became of me, I didn’t give a fuck. My life is over; all I can look forward to is existence. If that’s my future, then it doesn’t matter what form it specifically takes.
A started babbling at me in his sleep, which is not something he can help, but it annoyed me and I started crying and came downstairs. I lay on the sofa and curled up with the cats, rocking back and forth, and remaining there, awake, for the rest of the night. I thought about adding to the body art, but to be honest I simply didn’t have the energy or motivation. Interestingly, I have read in several places that depressed people are at the most risk of suicide and/or self-harm when they start to make small improvements, for instance when anti-depressants or psychotherapy first start to be successful; when they are in the depths of despair, they simply cannot get motivated to undertake the acts, but when they are still depressed, just a little less so, they begin to get back enough energy to go ahead and do it.
Wednesday was alright, if boring. However, after I went to bed on Wednesday night, A found some of the cuts from Tuesday afternoon and was upset by them (I had been successful in hiding them until then). I freaked out at him at one point then started crying and apologising to him. I kept wailing that he was angry with me, and he would either not answer or he would say that he was not angry with “my rational mind”, which means he is angry with me because my irrational mind is in control of me so much of the time.
But he ended up being nice to me and so I got over it and, although I was fairly depressed yesterday during the day, I improved last night have been in fairly good form since. Strange how the moods swing.
So, this is kind of a pointless post, but then they all are, except for my own reference, and of course that is the main point of this blog. So I suppose in that sense it does have some point.