Non-Plussed

Have you ever felt like you were going mad? Like what you knew to be verifiably true, you were told wasn’t? Like this:

Your appointment was 1.00pm.

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So, when I am called in to the office, at 1.45pm, having arrived at 1.20pm, I am told there are only 15 minutes left. I am non-plussed. But I didn’t have the letter with me. Maybe it was my mistake. Stupid of me not to have checked.

……..

Or, have you ever felt like you are so mad or bad that you are beyond help? I used to think that as a child. My parents often said that I would be taken to my GP, after a melt-down. But they never took me, because, they said, they didn’t want to embarrass me. My behaviour then was beyond bad. Beyond mentionable to a doctor. I was bad, bad, bad.

Today, I am told by Consultant that the Lead for the emotion regulation classes thinks I’d find them too hard. So I should wait on the Complex Needs service. If a space on emotion regulation classes become available before then, she’ll reconsider them, with support. But the Lead thinks not.

Am told that the mental health team want to discharge me. This wasn’t mentioned at the meeting on Tuesday. I am non-plussed. Again. Feel small and insignificant for not knowing this. I clearly should have known this. I don’t know why I don’t know. I break down.

She asks me how things have been since we last met, and I don’t know what to say. Cover the past three months in ten minutes? How will unwrapping the pain of that help? I tell her I have been barely working and feeling low, low, low. She says she is astounded by how much I am doing in spite of everything. That I should feel OK with work.

In the past three months I have gotten nowhere, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Everyone says I need to be worked with. No one seems to have the time to work with me.

For now, I am to be supported by the consultant, to check in with her, every six weeks or so, while I wait. I’m unsure of how this will help. She encourages me to verbalise my frustration with the waiting, the not knowing. She says (again) that the waiting is not “okay”. So I do tell her. But it doesn’t help, because it is the system, not her, I am frustrated at.

I go to a church afterwards. I sit. I rock back and forth. I write in my journal, and cry. As I cry, God whispers to me. Tells me things will be okay.

He has drawn close again. And He has time for me. I could pray and pray and pray.

 

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