Your sense of humour seeps out, like in your pencil case
remarked one of the therapists, a couple of weeks ago. Arriving for my first day at my desk this week, my line manager;
Ha! Love the pencil case 😀
And, although I am trying not to think about the therapeutic community, the fact that it is in session, and I am not there, alongside my manager’s comment, means that I do think on it. I feel bereft of them. It was hard on Wednesday, too. Easier today, because the T.C. isn’t running. Easier when I am with others.
Otherwise, hard. Because, while work is going well, and things are falling into place, moving to Scotland has proven trying and exhausting. And the people I would normally offload to are not available anymore. Instead, they are miles away, and they feel miles away, and I’m not sure I can cope with this. And there is a niggling worry that they never wanted me there in the TC, anyway. Maybe they are glad I am gone. Some of them never said good bye. The lack of closure is tearing at me. I miss being there.
I am supposed to be more resilient now. Supposed to be able to cope with life. Instead, these last two weeks, I find I am tired and crumbling. I am waking in the night shaking uncontrollably, mired in sweat and anxiety. The world is spinning around me. I am hearing voices that aren’t there.
On Friday afternoon, the therapy moving on group meet, and tell me I need to go back on the anti-depressants. They say that I am understandably stressed, and the final withdrawal is horrendous for most people, and I should leave trying to do it for now. But I have only a few days’ of meds, and no prescription for more. I try to register with a GP in Scotland. I travel half an hour on a bus to get to the only practice registering new patients. I am told I need a utility bill or bank statement as proof of address. I am told my (ironically named) bank will print proof for me. My mind is thrown to two weeks ago. All my utilities are paperless, not that I have yet had any bills. The surgery refuses to accept or print the email confirmations I have of utility accounts at my address.
I turn again. I turn and run, and scream and scream and scream in the street. No one is there. The winds are up to nearly 100mph. The rain is driving down hard. I scream until I am exhausted. I am not OK., and I can’t get the help I need to be OK. I can’t cope with this.
I manage to speak to my former GP. He agrees with the moving on group, and says he will post a prescription to me. He says requesting proof of address before GP registration is illegal. Maybe he is right. It is not a battle I can fight. I am too tired. At work, I print a copy of my house contract. It is the only proof I have. It is not signed. It is electronic. I go back to the surgery today, less the rain and gusts. It is accepted. I don’t see the rhyme, nor reason. I am tired.
I am tired, and scared of myself, the strength of my reactions. Scared I will hurt someone. Deeply disappointed at needing to go back on the meds. Not because it is weak to need them, but because I thought I was doing OK, and this week and last have proved that I am not. When I am stressed, I respond with the same intensity as before, if not more.
I have not hurt myself. Where before, to be sure of not hurting someone else, I would harm, I have not. Neither do I believe that harming myself would do anything to anaesthetise the psychological pain I am feeling. I did not shout *at* anyone. I waited until I could not be heard. I feel desperately frustrated at the GP surgery, and sad and lonely at leaving England, but I believe it will fade. And I am keeping the pencil case on my desk. I don’t zip up anymore. Pain is welcome, too.