Why I dislike my consultant psychiatrist

Firstly, the woman is a bitch. Call it a typical bpd response if you like but she really is. I first had the pleasure of her company 6 days after I’d been admitted to a psych ward for taking an OD. For some reason my consultant of 15 years had transferred me to her, despite the fact that I’m known to have problems with female authority figures, or perhaps precisely for that reason.

I saw her once per week until discharge during which time I was repeatedly told how lucky I was. How other  patients were so much poorlier than I was. How all my problems would be resolved with a visit to the C.A.B to sort out my debts. Now I’m not the sort of patient who turns up at the gp’s every few days and demands all sort of treatment. I’ve held down jobs most of my life and only sought help when the depression has become so intense that I feel I’m losing my grip. It’s only in the last 2 years that I’ve received anything more than the standard 8 sessions of psychotherapy. I was ‘lucky’ enough to get a place at a therapeutic community for a year. Yet here she was telling me that I only had mild depression and that it had disappeared after a few days on the ward!

What does that do to someone with bpd? It makes them angry and it makes them feel guilty. I struggle every day with the thought that I might be putting this all on. That I’m a fake. A waste of space. A benefit scrounger. Doing the old starving children in africa routine doesn’t cheer me up and make me want to change my life. It makes me want to kill myself for being such a bloody failure.

So to week four on the ward. I was woken up from my afternoon med induced nap and pushed into a room full of the usual Ward Round numpties. ”You can go home” she sais. ”Oh ok, when?” I ask, suddenly very scared at the thought of leaving. ”Now” is the answer. And that was that. Sent home alone to my flat with nothing more than the promise of a follow up meeting a week later with a cpn at the hospital and a weeks supply of Venlafaxine.  Just a week previously I’d taken an od of pills on the ward. The day before I’d self harmed with a razor. But no, off you go into the big wide world with all the same debt problems hanging round your neck and not even a referral to the CMHT.

The NHS Don’t you just love it?

So I’m off back to see the Wicked Witch of the NHS in a couple of weeks to plead for a change in meds. My venlafaxine gives me an attractive all over body rash and doesn’t do more for me than take the edge off my anxiety. I’m so looking forward to that pull yourself together lecture which i know i will get. BPD is not a mental illness according to my consultant (and many of her colleagues). Well that’s alrighty then.


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