I had an appointment with my psychiatrist this morning. I got up late, but figured if I took a taxi, I would still be able to get there in good time. I have my usual local taxi company on speed dial in my mobile, so frequently do I require their services. Except today they couldn’t help me. They couldn’t get to me until I was due to be there. I could sense the anxiety rising, and my mind went utterly blank as to what I should do next. If I attempted to drive and park, walk, or catch the two buses it would take, I wouldn’t get there on time. I rack my brain to think of someone locally who may be able to give me a lift at short notice. I’m getting frantic, feeling nauseous and agitated. I remember the name of another cab firm. I have to look up their number. I feel disloyal to my usual company, but it’s an emergency. I need to make this appointment. My meds are under a kind of ongoing review at the moment, and as I’ve not been doing too well I am eager to talk to the doc. The other taxi firm can take me. Relief. But by now my chest is tight, my heart is racing, my legs are wobbly and I have that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I arrive with a few minutes to spare. The receptionist is busy on the phone. When she finishes her call she checks my name with me. Then the phone rings again. And again. Then another patient arrives. Time goes on. By the time she lets my doctor know I have arrived, it is after 11. I hate being late. Now he’ll be thinking I was late. Panic symptoms increase again.

Finally he calls me in. As I stand up my legs turn to jelly. I struggle up the stairs, lagging way behind him as I cling to the banister, fearing all the while I will fall down. I try to slow down my breathing. He turns and glances at me as I noisily struggle to take deep breaths. He looks at me like I have lost the plot. Maybe I have.

He gestures to a chair, out of the bright winter sun and asks how I have been. All over the place I say.

“What do you mean by that?” he says. My brain is devoid of words. I stare at him, like he’s speaking a foreign language. I mumble something about my extremes of mood. Again, “What do you mean by that?” I skirt around the truth. I am too embarrassed to tell him plainly. I carefully pick my words. Even I am dismayed by some of my behaviour recently when my mood has been high. I fear the consequences of being honest. I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want to be labelled. I don’t want to be abused. I fear my own vulnerability. I zone out. My head takes me on a little journey of all the bad places I could end up if I tell the truth. I lose track of how long I have been quiet until I hear the doctor’s voice again. I’m back in the room but have to ask him to repeat the question. When I finally find the words they fall out of my mouth cold and emotionless. I feel detached from what I am saying, as if talking about somebody else. I hear him typing into the computer. I wonder what he’s concluded about me. I quickly put that thought out of my head. I’m really not sure I want to know.

Suddenly a barrage of information. Increase this. Start that. Try to improve sleep. Tell your GP. I struggle to keep up. “You will have a new doctor next time……..starting in February……..a lady.” Suddenly I feel my chest tightening again, my heart racing. I can’t take it in. Where is my care coordinator? I thought he had said he would be at the appointment. He never appeared. How am I supposed to take everything in? I’m going to forget everything. I’m going to mess up. I’m going to be in trouble. I can’t cope with change. I’m going to get worse. I can’t do it. I can’t cope. Panic!

And then the realisation he has finished talking. He expects me to leave. I am in a bubble. I leave in a bubble. I walk home in a bubble. As I come to my front door I see my neighbour but I am still in a bubble. I hear her ask if I am ok. From the bubble I tell her I am. She doubts me, she asks again. I keep saying yes as I close my door. I feel bad. She cares about me but I just want to be left alone.

I get a can of cola, put it on my bedside. Take off my boots and jacket. Climb into bed. I fall asleep. For a long time. By the time I wake fully it’s dark. 8pm I make a call to my son, pretending everything is fine. He is quiet, we struggle to find anything to talk about. The call ends. I lay my head back on my pillow. Next time I come to I get up. I make a cup of tea and cut myself a piece of cake. I sort out the washing. I decide to have a bath. I take the dressing off my arm, and nearly throw up. The small area of skin I scratched raw yesterday is oozing masses of green gunk. I panic again. As I dab off the excess discharge the scab that was beginning to form dislodges. It is so sore.

I have my bath and my arm stings like crazy. Do I cover it again or leave it to the air? I don’t know what to do. I feel low and alone and scared. I am bombarded by emotions, grief, anger, sadness, shame, despair. Why can’t I cry? What am I supposed to do with this tsunami of negative feelings? I want to kick something. Hard! I want to lash out. I want to cut myself. I want to scream and shout and pummel my fists into the wall. I want to cry.

I decide to call Out of Hours. I am terrified I will get the horrible one. I am frightened the mood I am in what abuse I may hurl at him. Yet again my heart is racing as I wait for the call back. The phone rings, my heart is in my mouth…….and it’s ok. It’s not him. It’s one of the good guys. I’m tongue-tied. My words jumble out all wrong. I try to explain about the sore on my arm, apologising for being in a state and not knowing what to do. He’s kind. Reassuring. He gives me advice. We discuss my mood. I feel like I’m going to cry, but as soon as the feeling comes, it goes again just as quickly. I wish I could cry, but I can’t. I don’t feel safe enough. I need to know that if I utterly fall apart there will be someone by my side who won’t judge me, ridicule me or abuse my vulnerability. And as much as anything, hold me tight and tell me that things will be ok. I just don’t see how it can happen when I feel unable to trust or get close to anyone. I know keep bottling up all that raw emotion is making me worse and if I don’t let it out, it will destroy me. I am so scared. I don’t have any answers. It just hasn’t been a good day.

Thanks for reading.