There’s a song by Karen Money that I love, and which often comes around on my MP3 player. I can chant the lyrics almost mindlessly, I’ve played it so much:
Tear to shreds my safety net, and rip up every back-up plan I made
Apart from I noticed them this morning, because God has done as I asked. And I don’t like it, and I don’t feel safe, and I want the net back.
I am about to be discharged from the care of the mental health team. I am alive in spite of the suicidality of the past few months: therefore I can “cope”: I am low-risk. I know the skills they are equipped to teach, even though I don’t have the wherewithal to use them. They don’t have the means to help me use them. I must wait for the therapy that promises to give me that.
But there are monthly “waiting group” therapy meetings, keeping people in a holding pattern. I go to one. But because the bus is late, and I arrive, travel-worn, two minutes late, I am not allowed in. Dishevelled and exhausted, despair folds itself tighter around me. I melt down. Again. I am ending up a molten mess more and more often.
I am told that the commuting may be for nothing. The service offering the therapy is under consultation; due a further funding cut. Losing staff. By the time I get to the top of the waiting list, the service may no longer be there. But I have to keep commuting, to not go back to the bottom of a years-long waiting list elsewhere. I have to trust that the service will be there.
In the meantime, I must wait without the safety net. Wait amidst dreamless sleep and hard, hard work, at college, and in friendships. In fear of the next meltdown, to be negotiated without support. So help me, God.