a list of excuses as long as my arm

I feel the need to apologise for my MIA approach recently, although the sane, logical part of me laughs at that because no one reads this, so effectively I’m apologising to myself for not keeping my promise and have some form of outlet of emotions.

But anyway, I do have a legitimate reason: the past two weeks I’ve been doing my final exams (two geography and two philosophy). It was a 50/50 spilt, my first geography paper, which was a resit from January was a dream paper. My biggest worry had been the fact that I had to sit in the exam hall for two and a half hours, trying to come across as an intelligent girl. Ha. This wasn’t too much of an issue actually and I have a small level of hope that I may have managed to do this. Let the waiting game commence now. My second geography exam wasn’t perfect, but bearable. Philosophy followed the same pattern as geography, first was great, second not so great.

I also had my final day at school. My school has been a massive source of support, particularly over the past year. I knew who I could turn to, whether it was my year head, a teacher who knows me very well, a student support teacher or my connexions advisor. I suppose that now all the support has been cut off, I’ve realised how important it was. I can’t deny it I am scared about not having that in my life. It took me a long time to work out who I could and couldn’t trust in the school, and longer still to actually have the confidence to speak out and admit to how I was feeling, even then I was never completely honest. I know the children protection policy inside out, I know what I can say in confidence and where the line is drawn, meaning that information is passed on. At the time, I was very naïve and thought that the people I was communicating with wouldn’t see past the smile. I felt that if I didn’t say what was wrong, they wouldn’t know. I never took into account that they knew me well and half the time could guess anyway. But if I didn’t admit to it, they couldn’t do anything. Or so I thought.

Like I said in a previous post, I cancelled my last counselling appointment. My counsellor carried on ringing me. I carried on ignoring her calls. Eventually, she got wise to this and rang me on an unknown number and I answered. Timing wasn’t ideal, I was sat with the boyfriend watching The Boat That Rocked (good film by the way). Obviously he has no idea what is going on at the moment, so it was a very one sided conversation. She was “ringing to check up on me”. I didn’t take too kindly to this. My replies mainly consisted on one word answers, only expanding to explain that my priority was exams, and until they were finished I wasn’t thinking about anything else. However, I did let slip when my exams finished, so I’m fairly certain that today the calling will start again.

What else? Ah yes. The NHS and how it is interweaved through my life. Last week I received my pre-operation assessment form – 22 pages of personal details and occupational health information. The pre-op appointment is next Wednesday. The realisation that I’m having surgery has hit home. My exams have finished and I had had the attitude of “okay, I still have exams, when exams have finished I’ll think about the operation.” Well, that day has come. And then yesterday I had the fortnightly GP appointment. I don’t really know what to make of it. I’m amused because my GP is proud of me for defying the NHS and carrying on with my education, against the wishes of my consultant, who had told me that dropping out of 6th form would be better for me and my health. So that was slightly odd. She is however, concerned about the self harming and lack of support I now have. I told was honest and told that yes, I am still hurting myself, but half the time I have no memory of doing so, which is scary and disconcerting. She is trying to push me down the medication route. This is a pointless thing for me, I’m already on medication and am refusing to take it, causing a constant battle between my GP and I. I have a (possibly irrational) fear of taking medication. I don’t want to be putting different chemicals into my body and not have any control over what they do. Eventually we reached the agreement that I have to ring the counselling service, talk through what’s been going on and arrange to see a different counsellor, because part of the reason that I’d fled like a rabbit being chased by a fox was a massive personality clash. I found her patronising and didn’t appreciate being talking down to. I found her rude and blunt and assuming. All in all, it wasn’t encouraging me to have an honest dialogue with her. If I don’t ring the counselling service, I will be forced into taking medication.

This may be my plan of action today, although I have a list of excuses as long as my arm: I need to go into town, I need to go to the bank, I need to buy some food, I would like to buy a new book because all this time I now have isn’t healthy. Oh, and I am going out for a pub lunch with some friends from school, partly as an end of school/exams celebration but also a small good luck gathering before I go into hospital. I have some lovely friends, I really do. The counselling service is only open from 2pm-6pm, so my promise to myself is if I don’t ring them today, I am going to go, in person, on Monday.

This was a lot longer than I was expecting. If you have read it, thank you. But it feels good to let it all out, regardless of whether it’s read or not.

Freefall

I cancelled my counselling appointment on Tuesday. My counsellor rang me at 3.30pm on Wednesday, which is when I should have had my appointment. I didn't answer. She's been ringing me every since then and I have ignored all of her 9 calls. That probably makes me a bad person, but I don't want to talk to her. I don't know what to say but I can't go back.

On Thursday morning (yesterday) I went to see my GP. Every time I go there, that wait in the waiting room is dreadful. Every time I want to turn around and run and keep running until I lose where I am and lose the sense of reality. But I didn't run, I waited. I waited to hear her call my name and I walked down the corridor to her room. I sat down. And I burst into tears and cried for a solid 10 minutes - thankfully I had a double appointment. She looked concerned. I tried to explain why I was crying, but it didn't make sense to me, so I doubt it made sense to her. I explained that I had cancelled the counselling session and that they kept ringing me. She said that they would be worried about me because I'm so "vulnerable and fragile" and by ringing me they are "providing a safety net". It already feels too late for a safety net, I've already fallen and each time I think I've stopped falling, I fall some more.

I have to go back in two weeks. But right now I need to keep it together long enough to pass my exams. I'm terrified that I'm going to walk into that exam room, open the paper and not know anything. I've worked so hard. But. It won't be enough. It never is.

After 10 minutes of crying then a further 10 minutes of trying and failing to make sense of everything, I did what I do best, switch into autopilot mode and go to school for revision sessions.

So I think this is it. I think I have, as some people might phrase it, lost it. I'm freefalling and it's never going to stop.

never far from fear

Sometimes I feel like I'm leading a double life: the life people want me to lead and the one I'm actually leading, but am too scared to admit to fully.

The one people want me to lead, and assume is me all the time, is fairly simple and straight forward. I like that. I'm a number of things: a daughter, a niece, a best friend, a girlfiend, a student, a carer for disabled children, a mentor and a teaching assistant. Every single person who I know, in whatever role I'm in, all seem to think that I'm happy, calm, collected etc. That's quite funny, in the sense that I'm anything but those things. I wish it was that simple, but I feel like I'm battling a demon which is making being those things close to impossible.

I get up in the morning after fighting with those inner voices, which are telling me to give up, to not get out of bed, because I'm worthless and staying in bed would be better for everyone. Sometimes they win and I listen: I don't get out of bed and I tell my tutor at school that I have a migraine. Nothing more is said on the matter. Why would it be? I've hidden how I felt.

School, as a rule, tends to be something I do on autopilot; after 14 years of education that is probably to be expected. I smile when necessary and pretend that I'm happy and answer "I'm okay" simply because I don't know how to answer otherwise. I don't like being there, but not being there fills me with dread because I know once it's over I'm going to have 3 months of sitting at home with nothing to fill my day, feeling pretty rubbish after surgery.

Work is something which requires a bit more thought and concentration, but because of that, I often find it's one of the times I feel safest: those few hours every week when I'm supervising 20 teenagers with mild disabilities. I don't want to cut myself. I don't want to hurt myself in any way. I'm looking after other people and ensuring that they are safe and in doing so, I don't for one moment need to think or have time to think abut myself. It's one of those rare moments when there isn't a little bit of me wanting to cry out how awful and scared I feel. I should probably state that a child has never been put in any danger under my care. Hurting myself is one thing, but I would never hurt another person, especially through a work capacity.

I don't know how to explain the "secret" side of me. This is the part of me which seem intent to destroying myself, through physical hurt or going over memories which are too painful to drag up. This is the part of me which wants to do and believe everything that the voices say. This is the part of me which finds it hilarious that I offer support and care for other people, because I am incapable for doing that for myself. This is the part of me which makes me angry and not want to see or talk to anyone for days.This is the part of me that torments me when I consider really, honestly, telling someone how I feel. This is the part of me which makes me freeze when I see my GP, so all I can admit to is cutting myself, but never more than that. This is the part of me which made me burn the letter I wrote to me GP trying to explain how I felt.

I hate myself for who I have become. I hate myself for letting it happen. But most of all I'm scared, because I can't trust myself. And sometimes, I really want to just do what the voices say.