Archive for the ‘psychiatrist’ Category

I might as well just cut and paste from 3 years ago.

January 29, 2013

Because I’m back there again. I don’t usually re-read old diary or blog entries. Why learn from the past when it’s so much more interesting to make lots of fresh new exciting mistakes? But today I came home from a&e and did a google search on CMHT’s and borderlines (more on that later) and up popped my old friends at Crazy Nurse, which in turn led me to this old blog.

So, A&E. In a bpd nutshell: decline, isolation, low moods,shaved head,worried mental friends,  intervention, a&e visit, sent home, overdose, long lovely day of sleep, mental health support line, emergency doctor on phone, narky GP receptionist, forced trip to a&e, bloods, ecg, Dougie Howser MD lookalike, psych consult, tears, home again, upcoming assessment with CMHT (shitting myself) Emmerdale on TV, new hazlenut chunky kitkat (yum), emotionally drained.

anyway that’s my week.

nice to be back. more to follow from tomorrow i promise. hope a few of my old friends are still about xx


Switchboards, Officialdom, Hangover and flatpack furniture

January 29, 2009

I drank far too much last night. I woke up this morning to find a trail of clothes in the hallway, a house stinking of sweet and sour sauce from my takeaway, and a grumpy cat wanting his dinner. It was a great night though and lovely to catch up with an old friend. We were celebrating my being discharged from the pdoc whom I saw for the final time yesterday. She’s happy for me to continue taking the meds and said I can ring for an appointment if I need to see her in the future.

Today I’d really like to go back to bed. Unfortunately Argos are delivering the results of my recent manic shopping spree, so I need to stay up until at least 6pm. I’ll bet they turn up at I’ve also lost my rag with the strange neighbour after he put yet another strange note in his window this morning. I’m ashamed to say that I called him a nutter, amongst other things. I’m going to blame that on the hangover though. Now I’m trying to get through to either the police or the council to update them on the situation. I keep being transferred through to a fax machine. I haven’t heard from them since I made the statement, despite being promised that they would keep me updated. Anyway, I thought I’d post  pics of some of the notes here to see what you think. Is he mad? Or just bad?



Todays is apparantly an idea for a new type of board game. No photo for it as yet but this is what it says.

Game Show Time

Players: A victim
A policeman

Components of Game
1) one council bin
2) three washing lines
3) A beware of the dog sign
4) the victim

Rules of Game

Place component on top of bin
Form a circle around the bin and face inwards. Circle must contain equal numbers. Policeman and Official must face each other.

Are we ready?

Relatives must not face each other or the game is void. Now look down on the bin. Now look up at the person opposite only. Only the policeman and official can look at each other’s faces. Now look hard. What do you see.

Prize. An end to gossip and treachery against the victim.


Now I do understand the reference to the wheelie bin. We take turns to put everyones out for collection but don’t bother with his anymore so he has to put it out himself. However I wasn’t aware of a problem with washing lines, and no one has a beware of the dog sign.  I presume he has been visited recently by the police and estate officer, which is why they both get a mention. The relatives must mean his family. Perhaps he is also angry at them now?

I know the notes aren’t threatening but they do disturb me. After 8 years I know he’s not going to give up and I worry that things will escalate.

Ooh my flatpack shelves have arrived!

seasons greetings

December 14, 2008

Dashing through the ward, thinking i’m a spy.
O’er the beds I jump, making nurses fly.
Students running scared, named nurse starts to cry
Oh what fun it is to be on a psych ward when you’re high.

Jingle Bells, my shrink smells
So I ran away.
Crisis Team said times are lean,
so we can’t come today.

Jingle Bells, my doc yells,
You’re so bpd
Punched him in the bollocks
and went back home for tea.

My psychiatrist is a lovely lovely woman

September 18, 2008

How  BPD am I lol? I hated her this morning and now I think she’s wonderful. I told her everything, including the thoughts that everything I was saying may be a lie and an attempt at manipulating her. She didn’t rush me, in fact I was in there for ages. As a result, I’m starting on a low dose (200mg) of Seroquel as of tomorrow. Actually the first two days I’m on 50mg, then 100mg before taking the full dose. It’s a little unnerving to be prescribed an anti psychotic as I’ve only ever had the anti d’s before. I’ll continue to take the Effexor too. It feels a little like a step back, but I’d reached the point where I couldn’t face those mood swings anymore. I’m a little worried about the possible weight gain though.

I’m also being referred to something called the T Poject which basically puts nutters into voluntary work placements or helps them into paid work. I’m very anti work at the moment. I don’t need that added stress. But it can’t do any harm to go and see what they’re about.

So next stop was the blood clinic to have a fbc plus checks for diabetes and thyroid problems. I coped with that quite well as they tactfully ignored my self harm scars. I did however lose my temper in the queue at Marks and Spencers after waiting 20 minutes, whilst the numpty at the check out had a panic attack over some vouchers. Grrrrr, it’s ok though. I didn’t hit him.

Thanks for the support to those of you who have replied to my posts this week. Much appreciated. I am so looking forward to a decent nights sleep on these new magic pills.

I’m just going outside, I may be away sometime.

September 18, 2008

Hardly a polar expedition but i’m off to see the pdoc. If I’m not posting for a while, it’s because she’s over reacted and chucked me back on the ward. Actually, it’s more likely that she’ll boot me out the door and tell me never to darken it again. Jokes aside, I am nervous as hell. I’ve spent the night alternating between feeling a complete fake, to feeling suicidal. I’ve managed not to cut, but feel bad for that because it must mean I’m ok, and I don’t really want to be ok. So why am I going to ask for meds to help me get better? I’m so contradictory. I keep reminding myself that she’s not the enemy, and she can’t help me if I don’t tell her the truth. But I hate laying myself bare in front of someone who has power. I want to protect myself. For gods sake, she is not my mother. She is not going to hurt me. I need to remember that.

Hallucinations or angry feelings?

September 17, 2008

Yesterday a woman walked past me at Starbucks and threw her baby off the mezzanine onto the floor below.

Well that’s what I saw. Until I blinked and saw her continue on past me, with the baby safe in her arms.  For a split second I felt horrified at what I’d seen, but have to admit to a nagging wish that it had been true, rather than my mind playing dirty tricks on me again.

I’ve pushed people over, stabbed pensioners in the queue in front of me at the check out, punched my father in the face, seen passing cars explode into flames. Just split second glimpses of what feels almost like a parallel world, where my anger and aggression has real consequences on those around me.

I’ve never physically hurt anyone other than myself. A lot of the cutting is to do with my guilt at these images. They’ve been part of my life for so long, since early childhood, that they are almost normal to me now. I brush them away fairly easily when they are of strangers, but the frequent thoughts and visions of killing people close to me disturbs me. I feel like I’m keeping a secret from them. Don’t they realise they have a monster in their midst?

There are different types of hallucinations too. Some seem to appear from nowhere, at a time when I don’t feel particularly stressed. Others I can very easily link to feelings of frustration or anger at those around me. I have tons of horrible thoughts about people too. And voices / thoughts out loud in my head, saying bad things about them or me.

I guess the difference between myself and someone with real hallucinations is that after that split second, I know they are my imagination. But that doesn’t make them any less unpleasant.

Sometimes I feel like I’m just a tiny step away from losing my grip on reality. It would be so easy just to give into it and lose the responsibility of being well. I wish I’d been born decades earlier and could have spent my life in an institution, safe away from everyone. No need to put on this pretence of being normal. Is that just the bpd talking? I hate being so confused about who I am and what I feel. I see the pdoc tomorrow and don’t know how to explain this to her. When I asked for the referral I was agitated and hyper. This week I’ve been depressed. Previously I was detached. Now I’m anxious. I seem to go from one state of mind to another so quickly and as each one passes I discount it as a period of self indulgence.

Today I have a huge urge to self harm. However, I know that it’s down to the upcoming meeting and I am determined not to succumb to these feelings. So much is riding on this appointment. I’ve been stupid to build my hopes up like this. I’ll go in there and be all passive as usual, overawed by her authority, and agreeing with everything she sais. I won’t tell her about the visions or the voices. I never do. I need to make her understand how much I’m struggling on a day to day basis without her over reacting and not letting me leave the hospital. I can’t be sick right now. Dad needs me too much. I just need something to get me past the next few months whilst he has his op and recovers or dies. Whichever comes first.

Feeling low

September 15, 2008

I’ve been waking up depressed again, which I absolutely hate because surely it’s not too much to expect to feel refreshed after a nights sleep? I wonder if it’s the change in seasons already? I feel like I’m wading through treacle today. A letter arrived from a debt collector. Looks like Lloyds have finally sold my debt on and he wants me to phone him to arrange partial settlement, whatever that means. I can’t face it today. Lloyds ignored several of my letters where I explained my health problems and included a letter from my doctor, so I’m going to ignore this one too. I know it’s not sensible but I really can’t deal with it. I only opened the letter because it was cunningly disguised as a normal, non bill type envelope. I made arrangements to pay £1 per month last year but never stuck to it. Isn’t that ridiculous? But filling out a direct debit form and posting it back is beyond me. Everytime I think about dealing with it I just curl up on the sofa and go to sleep again.

Last year I tried to get help from a social worker with all this, but they said no. I suppose I could try the citizens advice bureau again but it’s on the other side of town and I can’t face sitting in their waiting room. I don’t want to be around people.

Psychiatrist appointment coming up on Thursday which may account for me wanting to put my head in the oven right now.

God this is such a pity party post. I really need to just get off my bum and open this mail. Maybe tomorrow.

BPD. Not a mental illness?

September 3, 2008

How do you define a mental illness? For years I was awarded the ‘reactive depression’ tag. Most of my care providers were sympathetic. They understood that just getting out of bed was a daily battle for me during those bad times. They knew that I only went to see them when I’d deteriorated to the extent that I could barely function for the cloying black fog which had settled around me. They let me cry in their surgeries. They gently encouraged me to take baby steps back to good health again. They agreed that mental illness was a bitch and that I was likely to suffer these relapses throughout my life.

But then a pdoc who barely knew me slapped a personality disorder diagnosis on me. ”You’re not mentally ill. Just mildly depressed. You need to stop stomping around this ward and remember there are people here who are much worse than you.”

And suddenly the reaction at my gp’s changes subtly. There are no suggestions of a future referral to therapy anymore. When I lose my control and dare to cry in front of them I’m told that my symptoms are just part of being me and there’s nothing they can do about it. They want me off meds because there are no meds for bpd. Don’t get me wrong. They’re not rude or angry, just dismissive. Afterall, a doctor wants to treat a patient and make them better. So why invest any time in a bpd’er who can’t be treated?

It appears I don’t get depressed anymore. Not like a ‘normal’ person. My mood swings are just the child in me acting out. Just ignore her. Selfharming? She’s just attention seeking. Ignore it and she’ll go away. We don’t like her because she doesn’t do anything to make herself better.

I’ve spent years battling these moods. I’ve held down jobs most of my life, despite feeling like I’m being thrown to the lions everytime I walk into a room full of people. I’ve worked hard in therapy. I’ve taken on board what people have said to me. I’ve accepted full responsibility for my behaviour and succeeded in changing much of it. I’ve learnt from the therapists how to look and act normal, to become less offensive to the public by hiding how I feel. I’ve spent a year at a therapeutic community, being broken down and built back up again into a more socially acceptable shape. I’ve lost who I am, if I ever even knew who that was. I’ve conformed. I’ve let people belittle my feelings for the past couple of years and tell me I bring my depressive moods on myself.

And where has it got me? I danced out of that TC on a high. Buoyed up by their expectations and insistance that I would be fine. That I could go back to work, maybe go to college again, be normal. 3 months later I started to slip. I tried to talk about it to them. Ask their advice. They put their hands over their ears. We’ve given you the skills. Go away and use them. Don’t mess up our success rate.

I knew what was coming. I’d been there before so many times. The only difference was that this time I only had myself to blame. I’d been told to let the past go. So when the urge to die became stronger each day, so did the guilt. Because if you’re not mentally ill and you want to die, then you must be a bad person right?

So that’s where I am now. Facing years of forever battling someone of my own creation. Because here in the UK a personality disorder is still seen as self inflicted. And whatever the reports may say, it is still a diagnosis of exclusion.

Why I dislike my consultant psychiatrist

August 29, 2008

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.

To blog or not to blog?

August 29, 2008

As the title of my lovely new blog suggests, I spend most of my time welded to my big red squidgy sofa. In that case, what on earth do I have to talk about? Well we’ll have to see what transpires I guess. Probably a lot of self obsessed musings about my depression, coupled with the occasional bitter rant at mental health ”services”.

So a bit about me. 35 yrs old, terminally lazy (my gp calls it chronic motivational problems but bless him for trying to be tactful), various dx over the years of reactive depression, bulimia, compulsive eater and the latest (drumroll) ………. emotionally unstable personality traits! Wonderful. It says a lot about me that my reaction to the latter was to take umbrage at not being given the full blown personality disorder diagnosis. I feel like i’ve only acheived 40% in an exam lol.

I’ve been in and out of psychiatrists offices since my teens, with varying success. Some were good. Some were bad. Sometimes I was good, sometime I was bad. Most of the time I just didn’t click with them and I do tend to make my mind up about people very quickly (i.e they’re all out to get me).

Last year I had a mini meltdown which resulted in a months rest in one of our wonderful NHS psychiatric hospitals. An eye opening experience as it had been many years since my last ‘holiday’ and one which I am yet to move on from.  But more on that another time.  On my discharge form I noticed my new diagnosis. ”What’s this?” I said. No answer or explanation was forthcoming from the nurse, and so started a long journey into the world of bpd and the internet. For the purpose of this blog I’ll be using the term bpd traits, partly because it’s more known than the term EUPD and also because that’s what my gp calls it. Also because having read up on it at length, I’m fairly certain that I display most of the traits if not all of the time.

So why start a blog today? Well it’s partly because I should be getting dressed and going out to the shop, so this is the perfect excuse not to. Secondly, a few things have been going on recently which have made me more introspective than usual. I don’t really expect anyone to read this (oh ok yes i do, i’m nothing if not an attention seeker), but I have found that keeping a diary helps me occasionally, and hopefully this will act as another distraction technique.

I’m a self harmer. Over the years my destructive coping mechanism has varied from drinking, over eating, cutting, hair pulling, to hitting myself in the head with a hammer or grinding gravel into my knee in the school playground as a kid. Self harm has been part of my life for as long as i can remember, but I always tended to only see the cutting as SI in the past. It’s never been something that I think of as cool. I love my scars. I hate my scars. I hide them from the general public, but I do tell the doctor if I’ve done it. A couple of nights ago I cut my wrist. I didn’t slash it. Nothing so dramatic. Just a cut deep enough to need steri strips and a quick trip to A&E. I’d put it off for two weeks.  In the last month I’ve been dealing with an attempt at coming off meds which failed and also finding out that my dad has cancer. I also have an upcoming appointment with the consultant from hell, although the dreams I have where I strangle her in her office are most enjoyable lol. But she deserves a post of her own.  Anyway the upshot is that I’ve been feeling very detached and the cutting was to bring me back to life. It worked for a while. Enough for me to start writing things down here.

So that’s who I am I guess. More to come.