Next assessment is Tuesday. This Tuesday. Review meeting with new psychiatrist and social worker, and maybe GP, and NHS mental health chaplain, and me. The thought of meeting a new psychiatrist fills me with dread. You are always mad to a psychiatrist. And what if she doesn’t hear me? What if no help is offered till Complex Needs, halfway through next year (if at all – no more funding)? I can’t cope with another year like this, without any help. I can’t do it. I’m exhausted already. I have half an hour for her to decide what to do with me. Less time than it will take me to write and post this. I am somewhere beyond worried. Injunctions not to worry about a thing seem far-fetched: easily said, impossible to enact.
Last time I was similarly worried, I felt so warm, held, remembered. I was frightened, but I knew that God was with me, that things would be OK, and they were. I was heard. I was helped. This time, the worry is pressing in more firmly than before and, in spite of praying, I feel alone and cold, and distant. I go back time and again to the places where I have felt safe in prayer, and try to enter into that sense again, but I cannot. I whisper to God, but feel like I might as well be begging the grey-stone walls for comfort. God seems absent this time. I fight to pray, but my prayers are just words, not communion.
Maybe I am asking too much. Maybe I have had the help that I can have, and I am now expected to go it alone. That image – the one of Christ with His friend – Christ has His hand on the disciple’s shoulder – not in embrace. As someone told me, reflecting on that image – Jesus will wash your feet, but He won’t give you a shower: some things are up to you. I am frightened that I am going to be left on my own this time. I want to feel held tight by God. I don’t like it when He seems so distant.