Before you continue reading this post please be aware of this TRIGGER WARNING. This post will discuss self harm and suicide. If you are feeling vulnerable maybe come back another day?
“Oh here I go again,
Walking the line, killing time, between my sins,
Oh, why do I come here?
The endings, still the same
I’m bringing back old tears”
So I thought I’d Share the opening lines to a song from the US country music drama Nashville. If you haven’t seen it,I recommend you do. I’m not a huge country music man, but I like the odd piece. This however is a song I adore. If you want to hear it you can hear it from this link to youtube. Anyway there was a reason I went with this song. And it stems from my visit to my GP today.
I’ve been trying to get an appointment all last week only to discover he was on leave all week. Please don’t think I’m begrudging a hard working doctor time off, far from it. If anyone deserves a break it’s him. However it made trying to explain my transgression a 8 days ago. I had told him I was disassociated and the only thing I can remember all weekend was the argument with Mum about not knowing what happened to me as a child wasn’t just a one off and then late on the Sunday night being surrounded by blister packs. Yet his first question was did I feel suicidal, now I’m not annoyed with him, by his own admission he’s not really had much dealings with such mental health issues. I can’t say I’m not a little frustrated because it represents what seems to be a repeated problem, people not listening to what I say. I had until I first spoke to survive forgotten the word disassociation. Although the CMHT (you remember the one that said I wasn’t ill, just lacking of structure) should have picked up on it not long after I first saw them, when I was concealing some superficial cuts to my forehead under a cap. I even told them that I’d been in a state of anxiety then next thing I knew was washing my hands and noticing dried blood covering my face in the bathroom mirror. Whilst I was in hospital I had a flashback apparently whilst it was happening I was unaware that I was being called for some time to take meds, apparently this went unheard/unnoticed. Then the next occasion which never got mentioned because I lost all trust I had for the CPN because she suggested the new memories of the abuse were false memories. It wasn’t till I saw my GP today that any medical practitioner knew in a state of disassociation carved the word DIE into my arm, the scar, although on the underside of my arm is still prominent that I have to hide it with long sleeves or a tube bandage. This is something that has happened before in my distant past, my consultant had me on an anti-psychotic in a heart beat till she had to stop it because it lost it’s licence. The one thing all the recent episodes have in common is they are preceded by extreme stress or anxiety related to the abuse. I know the triggers, but not how to prevent what follows. The best way to explain it is imagine you’re on a trip to see a friend. You know you’re going to see them, then the next thing you know is you’re sat drinking a cup of tea with them, yet you can’t remember anything about the journey. Clearly you know you made the journey because you wouldn’t be drinking that tea but no matter what you have no idea when you arrived, how long it took. And that’s pretty much how I’ve ended with some fucked up scars, a sore tummy, a poem that finished in a homicidal rant. I guess just like the song “oh why do I come here? The ending is just the same!”.
Now I said I don’t know if I was suicidal when I munched those pills down, although I’m not sure my gp truly believes that I consumed as many as I claim (despite me stating that I have previous form of consuming considerable amounts of pharmaceuticals before with having almost zero affect on me)I should explain if you don’t know me outside of the virtual world then I’m six feet tall and in excess of 150kg, very broad (as well as fat) I have quite a tolerance to medications. I can’t help but wonder what precisely I have to do to make people believe me from the outset. Do I have something so inherently untrustworthy about me that the natural assumption is I’m lying? For once when I’m asking for help I’d love someone to believe what I’m saying, because it will get to the point where I won’t ask for help if I think it’s an exercise in futility. Which brings me to my point for this post. Why do I walk this line? I have to wait for my gp to write to the psychiatrist (I’ve never seen but thinks I’m not ill) to ask him to refer me to the retreat for a proper DBT course. I can’t say I’m not anything but anxious. I can’t say I don’t have suicidal thoughts coursing through my head. What I do know is I’m not quite ready to go. I can’t go until I’ve made sure my abuser has been dealt justice, whether by the judiciary or by my hand of judgement.