Lie down on my couch and tell me about your mother.

Friday, 25 October 2013

Yesterday was the day, doom day.  A day I'd been actively avoiding for over half my life. The day when I'd finally have to verbally, face to face, tell a professional just how utterly crazy I really am.  My GP had referred me to psychiatry with suspicions of Bi-Polar disorder, bypassing the usual therapy channels.

There's anxiety and there's nervousness, both of which although related are not at all conjoined.  The former can be both specific and random with the latter being specific.  Yesterday I had both to the extent where I couldn't eat and felt physically nauseous.  It was like a heavy weight of serpents pressing down upon my head in a paper box whilst it rained.  I find appointments of any sort especially difficult, it's rare that I plan anything in advance as the anxiety activates my flee instinct.  I have to psyche myself up to do things and then have to do them spontaneously whilst I'm in that place that enables me to follow through.  Appointments simply provide some torturous wait, that sends my over analysation and tendencies to dissect into absolute hyper-drive.

It didn't help that the unit I was to attend was also where they treated substance and alcohol abuse and the only other person there was, shall we say, a character who quite possibly frightened the bejeesus out of me.

I had no idea what to expect.  I have an innate inability to expose myself fully, usually it's in measured and semi controlled spurts, after-all even a little bit of the crazy can scare people away.  It's easier to say nothing at all than risk the vulnerability of when you say too much.  To be completely open hand somebody else control and thus power over you.

I was in there over an hour, she was absolutely lovely.  I spoke way too much.  I couldn't stop because I knew if I paused, I'd not start again.  To pause would be to analyse and dissect and then to withdraw.  To pause would be to listen to the fear and allow it to take the reigns.  I guess it was a now or never situation.

It's like crying, you can't do it because you're afraid if you allow it to start it won't allow you to make it stop.

It was absurd in a way, trying to fit a lifetime into a little over an hour.  A lifetime of nothingness.  A lifetime of everything.

I have no idea what I expected, confirmation? validation?

She admitted that they dislike applying labels in a first meeting yet however, they do try and do it as that helps to know where to go from there on yet no label fit.  None.  I apparently have symptoms of Bi-Polar 2.  I have symptoms of Bi Polar 3, I have multiple strong Borderline Personality Disorder traits oh and I'm definitely heavily depressed.  No shit Sherlock.

She couldn't label nor help me.  Due to breastfeeding she can't medicate me other than the Sertraline I'm already on.

It's like professing your utter and undying love for someone only to have them reply 'Okay.  Thanks' anticlimactic.

She's referred me to be psychologically tested by a colleague in another department.

Not broken enough or too broken?  Perhaps I'm just the wrong kind of broken.

The initial relief of finally opening up, of letting someone see me inside out was exhilarating.

For about twenty minutes.

Then it all chipped away and I dissected everything I possibly said and remembered everything I forgot to say.  Convinced she couldn't wait to get me out of there, that I said too much or not enough, that I'm too broken, that she thought I was a complete and utter twat (just like everyone else does) That she was just wishing I'd give one word answers, waiting for me to shut up and leave.  I felt ridiculous.  & scared.  I shouldn't have gone.  This is who I am.  Nothing will get better. I said too much.

So it's another waiting game.  Could be months for the next referral.  In the meantime, I'm to remain on Sertraline and let it flatline me into submission.  An emotional zombie.

To remain living in the grey.


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