Thursday, 23 April 2015

A happy ending?

Previously I spoke about how I was about to say goodbye to my psychotherapist for the last time.
A month later I still find myself wishing his contract could have been renewed. I'm sure he's moved into an exciting new role but I miss him. I miss his quiet kindness and the way he reflected and helped ease my distress.

I bought him a little present to say thank you and I googled the words I wanted to write, (I wanted to check I wasn't quoting a hideous song or book). Thankfully I found I wasn't spouting anything too ugly but one of the search results asked if patients received false hope from their therapists. It's nice to be tickled by google.

And so the morning arrived. I said hello for the last time. In many ways it was a normal session albeit with a desperate elephant in the room (aka me).

Then the goodbye came, It felt as if the oxygen in the room had vanished, (The beginnings of a panic attack, I assume). I ran away trying to gulp in air, I wanted to disappear, I wanted to be anywhere but in this room but at the same time I felt as I hadn't said enough. I told him I sometimes wished I hadn't opened Pandora's box but I fear he felt as if our time had been wasted. I know it matters not what he thinks, I'm just another patient but I felt as if I'd let him down. He tried so hard and I was still this broken women.

I collected myself. I managed to breathe but our time was over. It wasn't a perfect ending but I never imagined it would be. I hid in the loo, the tears that stated I wasn’t sure would ever stop. Finally my sobbing came to a close. I felt so ashamed that I didn’t have the capacity to believe the placating words of his or my care co-ordinator. It simply felt like I was bereft. I wanted to jump in front of the tube (I pretended I was a tourist earlier in the week and got some stranger to talk to me as the tube was rolling in to stop me from jumping), I want to swallow all the tablets (I had them all hoarded, all the codeine and paracetamol), I wanted to cut my wrists (and I had the means).

Surprisingly, I made the short journey to my psychiatrist’s appointment. Unsurprisingly, she insisted on me being admitted.

And I guess that’s all she wrote.

A month later I am still an in-patient, save a brief interlude where I lied through my teeth, “oh no, I feel okay,” and discharged myself. I’m still sure that my future is short. My capacity for hope is non-existent but I realise there are others holding on to that hope for me. It seems pointless. I feel like I’ve chosen my choice and my sudden death is inevitable.

I know I have to try and trust the process but when the intrusive thoughts are pervasive, it’s hard to think about anything else. There are moments, like now, where I remember how much I used to love blogging and being part of a kind and inspiring community. I’m so sad that I’ve lost that connection and I don’t think I’ll ever be interesting enough (or pretty enough – let’s face it, bloggers are all babes now!).

So perhaps I can hang onto the fact I’m still trying? Or am I just being duplicitous? Trying to pretend to have a life, whilst suicidal ideation lurks close by. I guess, I’ve no idea who I am anymore. One imagines that would be exciting to most, the ability reinvent yourself, but I fear I am no-one. Am I only the broken wife of a great man? How I wish I could reinvent this whiny woman into something worth fighting for.

4 weeks is a long time in politics, sadly in mental health it is but a second.

1 comment :

  1. Hey Anna, I don't know what to say - or if there is anything I can say to help. I just wanted to let you know that I read your post and that I care about your outcome. Don't give up and keep blogging definitely - get it out and on here - whatever it is. None of us think we're interesting or pretty enough - even the prettier more interesting ones (I'd be willing to bet especially those bloggers in fact) so don't worry about that at all. Much love xxx

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