I thought when the police called last week to say Matt had been questioned, I couldn’t feel much sicker, or much lower. Sadly I should have learnt by now that life has a habit of just getting worse for me. I’d like to say ‘worse before it gets better’ but right now, better is beyond my realm of thinking. I know that’s depression speaking, and I seriously doff my hat (or halo) to my regular readers who put up with my endless negative ramblings. I guess I would write this stuff regardless of whether it was being read or not, as it is a therapeutic outlet for me in its own right, but just knowing it helps a handful of you understand more where I am coming from, is a real bonus.

Anyway, back to my latest nightmare. After the call from the police Tuesday I was struggling a lot, and when I had a meeting with my case holder from Mind on the Wednesday, I broke down, big time. She was really worried about me and asked if she could call the Community Mental Health Team on my behalf. I agreed, and in the absence of my regular Care Coordinator she was put through to the team leader who agreed to see me there and then. I guess I was trying to hang on to the hope that they may be able to do something to ease my distress. Yeah right. I think patient shaming and emotional blackmail are the best phrases to describe her approach. Maybe some people respond to such methods (not sure who!) but all it did was get my back up. As someone who struggles to express anger, all I did was go into passive-aggressive mode and try and get the hell out of there as soon as possible. 

I have been doing everything I can to survive. Distraction, relaxation, mindfulness, you name it. I have set myself simple, basic goals. One day it was ‘stay alive’ as that is all I felt mentally and physically able to aim for. Then on Thursday afternoon I received a further call from the police with ‘some news’. Short version; due to insufficient evidence the case was being dropped. For the second time that week I felt liked I’d been kicked in the guts. I thought I might vomit. Or faint. My emotions shut down in that split second, unable to process the complexity of feelings in response to what I was hearing. Suddenly it was dawning on me, the medical examinations, the photos, the statement and all the stress that went with them, they’d all been for nothing. And I imagined him, Matt, smug and gloating that he’d got away with it and this ‘crazy bitch’ had got what she deserved.

At some point that afternoon or early evening I sent a message to my son telling him I would always love him and to keep making me and his dad proud, before downing 51 Quetiapine tablets. He realised straight away something was wrong, and when I wouldn’t answer his calls he had the sense to call our friends who live in the next door flats. I fairly calmly told them I needed to go to the hospital. If I find myself in this situation again, I will try to remember that Quetiapine is a rubbish drug to take in OD. It makes me hypersensitive to pain, which is really pants when medical / nursing staff are trying to take blood or insert a cannula into my impossible-to-locate veins. I was in such a state of distress I recall hearing myself shriek, “Don’t let that man hurt me again!” as the doctor tried a vein on the top of my left foot, and I sobbed and instinctively recoiled, but in my head, it wasn’t the doctor I wanted protection from, I was mid-flashback to the ‘alleged’ assault, as I now feel obliged to refer to it.

I ended up admitted overnight to a medical ward. I was seen by the MH shared care team the following morning who announced me fit for discharge, despite my stressing to them that I felt extremely unsafe to be home alone with my thoughts. I was reassured I would get a phone call in the morning to reassess my needs. Not sure I have ever felt less reassured that I would be OK, but such is life as a MH patient in crisis. I actually have only praise for the nurse on duty who visited me twice over the weekend, and indeed for the gentleman I spoke to out of hours on the telephone. It was this morning when I spoke to my own CCo I began to drain of any hope again. Am fairly sure if I hadn’t pushed it, she wouldn’t have seen me until our planned appointment Thursday. As it is, she has now said she will come out tomorrow. 

My thoughts and feelings are just all over. I told the nurse at the weekend that I would benefit from a short hospital admission to enable me to feel safe and looked after for a few days. It won’t happen. I am nowhere near ill enough, but funnily enough, I know my mental health well enough to know what works for me. I guess I will just have to keep surviving somehow in the absence of a financed and functioning MH system. I thank God for amazing friends.

Hugs,

Angel 👼🏼