Archive for the ‘Illness’ Category

When You Have No Voice – Making A Decision To Communicate

Sunday, April 8, 2012

It’s been a long time, I know, but I’ll try to put you all back in the picture, as I know you will have all been eagerly awaiting my next update. [What? No?]

In the last few weeks I have been dealing with one of those much dreaded periods of flashbacks, and things have often felt completely and utterly hopeless. The flashbacks have by no means gone, but there have been a few days every once in a while when there have been fewer, and I’ve been able to find at least a little breathing space in between. When things are bad, that’s the time to focus on small blessings.

At the beginning of last week I had to go into hospital for a whole battery of tests and examinations. Part of these was a gynaecological exam, which for me is essentially an equivalent to psychological torture through physical means. I always try to prepare whoever is doing the exam by explaining that I come from a background of having been sexually abused as a child, and that these exams are pretty much garanteed to trigger off flashbacks; in short that they may need to brace themselves for my emotional response. They then usually say something along the lines of “Don’t worry, darling, I’ve seen it all before”, which is of course very kind and much appreciated, but it generally tends to become apparent that this is not really the case. When they’re faced with the sobbing heap these exams turn me into, it’s often clear that I react worse than most people they’ve examined. This then spirals into this odd cycle of them feeling sorry for me, and me feeling sorry for them having to carry out the exam on me..

So, not nice at all.

This particular nurse was absolutely fantastic, though, I have to say. It was very obvious that she was affected by my reaction to what she was doing, but because she was very open about that, I found that somehow reassuring and it in many ways it helped bring me out of the flashbacks and back into the here and now where we both were.

Concurrent with the flashbacks and general depression I have this week come down with some seriously nasty bug. This bug, by the way, is completely unrelated to the hospital thing, unless I have really lucked out and managed to contract MRSA while I was there..

At first I thought it was just hay fever, as this is the season when I usually have to stay indoors with my inhaler close to hand at all times. Had a very painful throat – not sore – painful, something I don’t usually get with my hay fever, but initially I just assumed that my body had decided to take my allergies to the next level. As it turns out this wasn’t it. Came down with a 39C temperature [that's 102F, if you're so inclined] in the middle of the week, and it’s been going ever since. So, what with the painful throat and the fever I’ve essentially had to be on paracetamol non-stop. It’s not great, Ibuprofen tends to be more effective, but for various reasons I am currently banned from taking that particular pain reliever, so there you go.

Feeling miserable on all levels is not a great place to exist and things have been unbelievably difficult. I know my last entry was pretty dire, and from there I suppose you could say things went south. Having no therapy has been really challenging, it feels like years until A. returns from maternity leave. But, I am still around, still fighting – even if the evidence of this has not been posted on my blog.

This Friday I had been invited to two sedarim – the special meal eaten by Jews on the first night of Pesach, but instead I spent the evening in bed, fighting flashbacks and this blasted bug. Last night I had booked a place at the communal 2nd night seder at my shul together with many of my friends. I did make it there, in fact even went for a pre-seder drink with one of my friends, but didn’t make it through the meal. Was feeling incredibly rough and then began having flashbacks, and I had to make the decision that I needed to make sure I could make it home safely before things got even worse. Hated having to leave, but as it turns out it was probably a wise choice.

This morning I woke up having absolutely no voice.

I have lost my voice in the past, but never quite this completely, and it’s kind of an interesting thing; the second you discover you have no voice [in my case when I began recording a voice message for my sister] you realise how much you rely on it.

I don’t usually use my phone or computer on Shabbat or during religious festivals. This is not so much because it’s biblically and/or rabbinically decreed that one should not use iPads or Blackberrys during festivals, as much as – being a modern reform Jew – I’ve made the informed decision that for me stepping away from all my techie gadgets and disconnecting for a bit makes those times different to other times. I am normally contactable at any given moment, day or night, be it through texts, Facebook updates or tweets, and so I like to make Shabbat and festivals different and special to other days, through unplugging in this way. Admittedly, most of my friends think this is completely bonkers, but hey, it’s just the way I roll.

However, since that accidental-on-purpose over-dose the other week, I decided that it’s actually a lot more life-embracing to temporarily break that self-imposed rule than to keep it. Which is why you are seeing this update today, during a week I would normally steer clear of modern technology.

To help me through particularly rough patches over these past few weeks I have often sought support over the telephone from my sisters, my friends and the Samaritans, regardless of whether or not this has been on Shabbat. Being able to talk about what’s going on, both physically and psychologically, makes me feel less like I’m on my own in this.

So, as you can imagine, waking up this morning, with no voice at all, has come as a bit of a shock, and has left me feeling very vulnerable. Which is why I’m sitting here now, writing this..

I guess that even when you haven’t got an audible voice, you can still find ways of making yourself heard.

Do be kind to yourselves,

xx

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Posted in Community, Coping Strategies, Depression, Expressing Emotion, Faith, Family, Flashbacks, Friends, Illness, Judaism, Medication, Psychology, PTSD/Extreme Emotional Stress Disorder, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Ideation | 2 Comments »

Remember September & Stepping Into The New Year

Monday, October 3, 2011

It’s been a while since I posted a proper update, I know. Things have been very difficult and it’s all felt too raw to put it down in black and white. To pick up where I left off: I went to the assessment at Drayton Park Women’s Crisis Centre and was offered a place the same day. It was very hard going back there, having not needed that kind of help in quite a few years. So much of my time at the therapeutic community I was staying in was designed to keep you away from the NHS mental health system, to find other ways of getting the support you need, preferably away from medication and hospital. So it was a big decision going back to Drayton Park. But needs must sometimes, and sometimes you have to swallow your pride and just accept any kind of help you can get.

The whole first week and a half at Drayton I spent virtually all of my time in my room, feeling unable to be around people other than my named support workers. I simply felt to embarrassed to be around people while I was fighting the near constant stream of flashbacks, as the things I do to ground myself can look quite odd if you don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I did have quite a few people come visit me, which felt more OK, because they were all people who know what I’m usually like, and who I knew could handle seeing me in that very very difficult emotional place. I know it’s hard to see someone you love struggle in the way I was – constantly having to fight this torrent of intrusive flashbacks.

Flashbacks aren’t a new phenomenon to me; regular readers will know that I suffer from single flashbacks frequently, and experience periods of sequential flashbacks every so often, but this was on a scale I’ve never known before. I’ve always understood the single flashbacks as an indicator of sorts that I am ready to perhaps deal with that specific incident in my therapy, and the periods of flashbacks tend to begin either when A. is away or when I am very stressed out about other things. But this, it was just something entirely different. A whole different ball game. As I said earlier, initially I was experiencing an incessant flow of flashbacks, most of them reasonably short and all of things I already knew had happened. Though never a pleasant experience, I was able to come out of them fairly quickly. What was really wearing me down – apart from the re-experience of the abuse situations – was the fact that they were so frequent. It felt very much as if as soon as I had worked my way out of one flashback another started, like one flashback triggered the next, and it took essentially all of my energy to remain fully in the present.

Then, one day – and I still don’t quite know why – the flashbacks changed. They became less frequent and were about things I had no conscious memory of. Although the reclining frequency was a welcome break, making it possible to at least go out of my room and spend time in the art room, it was absolutely terrifying. I always knew that there were gaps in my memory, pertaining to one specific person, but some of the things that came out were things I had absolutely no recollection of at all. I know that what emerged in those flashbacks did happen, that they weren’t figments of my imagination [although at times I tried very hard to convince myself that maybe they were].. The best way I can describe it is that it felt like I was remembering things I had forgotten I knew. These flashbacks tended to be more like long sequences, and were a lot harder to come out of, I think, in part because they caught me so unawares, memorywise, but also because the content of them were cruelty on a whole new level, and I felt paralysed by fear, unable to do the things I usually do to come out of the flashbacks. And I have to say, I’m still dealing with those memories now, feeling utterly traumatised by what those flashbacks unveiled.

I ended up spending a full three weeks at Drayton Park, and throughout those weeks, being stripped of the release and relief my various means of self-harm offered, they were probably the worst three weeks in my entire life. Every day I would ask the staff – pleading with them – to please, please let me have my scalpels, just for a little while, just to get a small break from the flashbacks. And each day my support workers told me no, because although their policy is that they recognise self-harm as a genuine coping-strategy for some people, they felt that my cutting would not be safe and could end in me, accidentally or intentionally, cutting to kill myself rather than to just relieve pain. Also, owing to my previous track record at Drayton Park, downing a pint of anti-freeze in a bid to end my life, my trust/credit rating with the staff isn’t the greatest, so their decision to not allow me to use any form of self-harm to cope, is entirely understandable.

I am now back home. Things are still difficult. The flashbacks aren’t as frequent, but I still have them fairly regularly, and it seems that an underlying depression is rearing its ugly head, and I am often struggling to get out of bed at all, unless I have to. I push myself to get to therapy and to not completely disappear in my own misery, but it’s hard work.

One thing that is good is that we’re now in the middle of a period called Yamim Noraim, [lit. Days Of Awe, commonly referred to as the High Holy Days, is the period between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur] – so there are a lot of things going on at shul, and so I have more things than usual that I need to get to. Also, on the days I simply haven’t been able to go to service I’ve been able to follow it online, and I’ve made a point of always making sure I am up and appropriately dressed, even if I’m only attending service via the internet.

All in all, it’s still a bit of a roller coaster; one good day, one bad and so on, but I suppose that it’s better to have some better days than none at all.

So, for a better and sweeter new year,

שנה טובה ומתוקה

~ Shanah Tova Umetukah ~

xx

OK – so this isn’t for this new year, but this Rosh HaShanah video from Michelle Citrin still makes me smile. I mean, c’mon – I named my blog after one of her songs, after all.

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Posted in Coping Strategies, Depression, Expression Through Art, Faith, Flashbacks, Friends, Illness, Judaism, Music, Psychotherapy with A, PTSD/Extreme Emotional Stress Disorder, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Ideation, Video | Leave a Comment »

Long-term therapy vs. short-term crisis resolution (..and a little artwork..)

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

I’ve been thinking about how to update my blog the last few days, but I’ve not felt able to do it. Partly because all my energy has been channelled towards fighting my way out of a flashback. Again and again and again. Times a million. It really has been kind of never-ending - and the only way that has worked to give me any kind of longer break has been to either make myself black out or to cut, neither of which is particularly healthy.

To say that it’s been a difficult few weeks would be a severe understatement. It’s been pretty relentless, and at times I’ve really just wanted it all to end, because there is only so much a person can cope with. The crisis team have been quite good (well, the nurses more so than the pill pushing doctors) – but it’s also been hard to find myself back in this system. Also, I’ve felt that the crisis team has been quite critical of the therapy I’m doing with A,, and they have frequently asked me if it’s really helpful to have this kind of therapy when it’s made me have such terrible flashbacks. Also, my relationship with A. has been questioned. More than once have they asked me if I’m not a little bit too attached to my therapist. My answer throughout has been that it’s not the therapy which is causing these flashbacks, it’s a combination of going home and then returning a week before therapy resumed, in conjunction with a number of other factors.

I’ve defend both my choice of therapy and the relationship I’ve worked so hard to form with A. on numerous occasions, but it’s tricky when you’re talking to people who see medication and CBT as the cure for all ills. It’s not so easy to explain that the whole point of therapy is that you form a close relationship with your therapist, and that it allows you to look at other relationships and see how they may be played out as little echoes within the therapeutic relationship. That in my veiw CBT is a bit of a band-aid, masking deep-rooted problems, and wouldn’t be at all appropriate for the kind of issues I’m dealing with. That, yes – this is really hard work, and yes it does bring difficult things up, but that it’s my feeling that the only way for me to be able to find some sort of peace within my past is to dare look at all those difficult things and realise that I can in fact survive the pain. And that’s what the work I do with A. is all about.

Despite this difference of opinion, having the involvement of the crisis team has also been of value  - I’ve felt held by the fact that I’ve been seeing them on the weekends, when I don’t see A., and that they’re available to talk to on the telephone 24/7.  It does help. But, that does in no way mean that I’m any less committed to the work I’m doing with A. I see it more as a crutch between sessions – for the time being – so that I can carry on with what I do in therapy.

Following yesterday’s adventures at A&E when I had my cuts stitched and SteriStripped – with a tetanus shot thrown in for good measure – R. from the crisis team came down to have a chat with me, and she said that she felt that my self-harming behaviour was going in the wrong direction, that it was escalating rather than subsiding, and that she felt I needed more support than what the crisis team can offer, and she suggested she make a referral to Drayton Park Women’s Crisis Centre.

I’ve stayed there in the past – years ago – and it has been helpful, so I agreed to R. making the referral. I think Drayton Park could be a safe option while I’m in the middle of this crisis.  To me it seems like a happy medium – I’ll still be able to see A., but rather than going home to a lonely room battling flashbacks and urges to self-harm, I’d be going back to Drayton Park, where I’d be able to talk to someone about my urges to self-harm. Also, I know that they will be a lot more encouraging in terms of doing the type of work I do with A. han the crisis team has been.
Fair enough, I’ve never actually been at Drayton Park when I’ve been in therapy, but I have several friends who’ve stayed there and have felt that the Drayton Park staff have been very much in favour of them carrying on seeing their therapists while they’re staying at Drayton Park. Essentially what they say is that your therapist is your long-term support and who will help you with long-term goals, and Drayton Park is a place to feel safe while being in the middle of a crisis. It’s a short-term add-on support system, not a replacement for your long-term aims and goals.

Anyway, I’m meeting with one of the workers at Drayton Park tomorrow for an assessment, and it still remains to be seen if they’ll deem it appropriate to offer me a place for the week.

Think it’s time to hit the hay now – hopefully I’ll be able to sleep a little more than I have been in the last few nights..

In the meantime I leave you with another drawing from the Little Sissi collection. This one is based on the first photo taken of me, post adoption, when I was about six months old.

Be good to yourselves.

xx

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Posted in Attachment, Depression, Drawing, Expressing Emotion, Expression Through Art, Flashbacks, Illness, Medication, Painting, Psychotherapy with A, PTSD/Extreme Emotional Stress Disorder, Self-Harm, The Therapeutic Relationship | 12 Comments »

Cuts, Stitches & Psychotherapy

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Things are still fairly touch and go. Really struggling at the moment. I’m having a lot of flashbacks, and it feels like everything in my life revolves around that. I don’t go out unless I have to, because I worry about having flashbacks in public. Not only is it embarrassing, but it could also potentially be quite dangerous as I don’t always feel completely aware of what is going on around me. I could quite easily not notice a traffic light going from red to green. And that’s just the “practical” side of flashbacks. Naturally there is also an emotional side to them, which is even more difficult to cope with..

Have been seeing the crisis team nearly daily since last Wednesday and have called them several times in between, and yet I can’t seem to find a way out of this darkness. Still can’t fight my urge to self-harm, and thoughts of suicide come easily to me at the moment. I fight it as best I can, but this is a mighty frightening place to exist within.

Went to see Dr H. today. She had asked me to check in with her in a week’s time when I saw her last week, because she wanted to be kept in the loop of how I’m faring, not just via the crisis team, but from me directly. Didn’t have much good stuff to share, I’m afraid, but I still think it was good to see her. Makes me feel a bit less anxious about when the crisis team decide to discharge me. Also she actually asked to see my cuts – which was a little embarrassing, but also made me feel more confident in her as she wasn’t shying away from the reality of self-harm. Have to admit that she looked quite shocked when she saw my handiwork, and she quickly decided that the cuts are quite a bit too deep and gaping to just be left on their own, so she ordered me to make an appointment to see the practice nurse, for her to clean them properly and either put in some stitches or Steri-Strip™ them. She said that ideally they should be stitched, but as my cuts are fairly close together that might not be possible.

I know this is going to sound really odd, but in some ways I don’t think I had really considered my cutting a real problem until Dr H. told me I might actually need stitches. I tend to just think of it as one of those things I do. A coping mechanism of sorts. I mean, I do know that cutting isn’t a good thing, but considering that I always use individually packaged sterile scalpels and antiseptic wipes to clean up, I kind of figured I had it under control. Clearly this is not the case; hadn’t at all realised how deep the cuts were – it wasn’t until I got home and had a look in the mirror that I could see that they were quite a lot more severe than I had thought. A seriously sobering discovery.

Saw A. today, and it was a good but quite difficult session. The last few sessions have been a lot about the here and now, about the impulse to cut and to play the choking game and fantasising about suicide and so on, but not very much about what’s triggered this downward spiral. So that’s what A. asked me to talk about today. An unusual step for her, as she is usually not particularly directive in her approach. Anyway, I gave it my best shot, starting with the obvious: the trip back to the scenes of the crimes. Talked about what it was I had wanted to be able to do on this trip, and how I feel I’ve let myself down by not being able to do it. And also what the reactions were to the little bits I did try to share. There’s plenty more to explore on this theme, and I think that the sooner I can start verbalising what’s happening inside of me, the sooner I’ll be able to step away from this very dark place I find myself in. I really appreciate that A. has been able to make time for extra sessions for me this week and last, even though that clearly means her working day becomes a lot longer. It makes me feel like I’m not fighting this beast on my own.
Also, she spoke to the crisis team on Monday, because they wanted to discharge me, and she felt it was too soon, that I’m still in the middle of this crisis, and need extra support from them for a bit longer. I’m really glad that she said that, because I feel I lose my voice when it comes to asking for things for myself, even when I desperately want to.

It’s really hard being back here again. It’s difficult to fight the feeling that no matter how hard I work, how hard I try, I will always mess it up, and find myself back where I started. That this is one of those life lessons that I seem incapable of learning.

But tomorrow is another day, and who knows, it might be marginally better than today.

And that’s better than nothing.

xx

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Posted in Expressing Emotion, Flashbacks, Illness, Psychotherapy, Psychotherapy with A, PTSD/Extreme Emotional Stress Disorder, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation | 4 Comments »

Survival – Knowing When You Need Help

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Things aren’t going so well.
Downward spiral at breakneck speed, I feel frightened at how quickly I’ve gone from doing really well to finding myself stuck in a pattern of inward turned anger and self-harm. A few weeks and I’ve managed to undo all the hard work I’ve put in these last four years.

Realising that I’ve lost control of things I have been forced to accept that I need someone to help me, and so on Monday I called my GP to make an appointment. Couldn’t get one until Wednesday, and let me tell you, that felt like a very long way away.

These last few days have really have been rollercoaster like, oscillating between trying to stem flashbacks by using cords and scalpels and later on feeling very very angry with myself for not having been able to stop myself from going back to this very destructive behaviour. And it’s becoming increasingly erratic. This morning I woke up and immediately reached for a fresh scalpel to punish myself for having, the previous night, used a cord coiled around my neck to make myself pass out. – There’s no logic to it, and I can see that. Yet, I don’t seem able to stop myself from acting out in this way.

I’ve been trying to do things in the last few days to try to prove to myself that I’m not quite such a bad person as I sometimes think I am. To show myself that I’m not a waste of space, that I am of some sort of value to the community. But it’s hard to hold on to those thoughts when it has to come through external actions rather than from some internal place..

Saw my GP this morning. I say my GP, but really, I saw a GP. I saw Dr H., a newbie doctor, in her own words. This turned out to be a pretty good thing; she listened to me and seemed to really take in what I was telling her, in contrast to some GPs who’ll whack out the ever-so-patronising “How Depressed Are You?” multiple choice questionnaire at the earliest possible opportunity in a bid to avoid having to actually listen to the patient. Given this opportunity to be heard I tried to be as honest as I could with Dr H. It’s hard, when you’re a bit of a people-pleaser like me, and you don’t want to make the other person feel bad, but I think I did OK.

Dr H. made the decision that she didn’t just want to start me on some meds, but that I needed to be seen by the mental health crisis team. She asked me to wait in the waiting room while she sorted it all out, as she didn’t want me to leave the clinic before she knew for sure that I’d definitely be seen by the crisis team. A reassuring touch, I have to say. I’ve certainly come across doctors who say they’re going to make a referral and send you off with a “Don’t call us, we’ll call you” style parting phrase.

As it turned out the crisis team wanted to see me at noon, so I essentially ended up going straight from the GP practice to the Highgate Mental Health Hospital. Felt quite anxious about going there, as I was still experiencing flashbacks and I was worried that I’d become too confused and disoriented on my way there. Also, I didn’t know what to expect. It’s been several years since I’ve been in touch with any form of NHS run mental health service. A lot of my work has been aimed at getting away from this system.

Then I was thinking of the advice I would give – and have given – friends who have found themselves struggling in the way I am right now: accept any help you can get, whatever that may be. This is not a time for pride, it’s a time for survival.

Talking to two members of the crisis team I did feel a lot better. They reassured me that their aim is to support people struggling with self-harm and suicidal ideation in their homes, rather than pushing people into wards, which may not at all be the best for a person. They did – of course – make it clear that if they felt I became more destructive and posed a serious danger to myself they would have to put me on a section order, but that their aim was to find alternative ways of supporting me. They made the decision – based on my previous history – that they’ll want to see me every day for now, and also asked if I would give them permission to liaise with A. regarding what would be the best way to go about things. Initially I didn’t feel comfortable with that, but in the end I decided that maybe it could be helpful to not try to keep different parts of my life separate. As I was a little unsure of A.’s number I told them I would ask A. to call them instead.

My session with A. today was quite difficult. I was just feeling so low, so defeated at finding myself back in this very dark place. I’m finding it very hard to motivate myself to not give up, keep falling into thinking that no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I work, I will always come crashing down..

A. said a few things that made me feel a bit better, made me feel like I’m not entirely on my own. But it’s still very very hard. She also added an extra session for me this week – first thing tomorrow morning – which felt comforting. Also I have been given the number for the crisis team, which is a 24 hour care service, so I can call and talk to someone on the crisis team at any time between seeing them in person.

I hope this will help stop me falling any further. Because last time I felt the way I feel right now I drank half a litre of anti-freeze and ended up in ICU..

So, if you have any to spare, thoughts and prayers are much appreciated.

xx

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Posted in Acceptance, Depression, Flashbacks, Illness, Inner Conflict, Medication, Psychotherapy with A, PTSD/Extreme Emotional Stress Disorder, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, The Therapeutic Relationship | 6 Comments »

Powerlessness, Asthma & Echoes From The Past

Friday, April 22, 2011

Feel like I ought to be given some sort of medal or badge today. It’s been one week since my last therapy session, and so far it’s been manageable. Moments of feeling somewhat lower than usual, but absolutely within the range of what I can cope with without freaking out.

That aside, today I feel like a prisoner in my own home.

The last few Fridays I’ve not been attending our Friday meetings, because B. – a former therapist of mine, whom I chose to terminate therapy with – is doing a student placement as part of her training at those meetings. I have been trying to explain both to others and to myself why I feel so strongly about her coming here, but it’s really hard to put it into words, aside from stating the obvious, that I chose to end therapy with her for a reason, and to not want to have to see her again, even in a group setting, seems – at least to me – a not unreasonable request. I would have thought that most people would not be particularly keen on having to see an ex-therapist once they have terminated therapy with that person. No?

But, of course, it goes deeper than that. It’s not just having to see her; at a stretch I could possibly, maaaayyyybeee, cope with that. No, I think this is tied in to the fact that I’d not just be seeing her anywhere, but actually in my home. And I have a feeling that this is a large part of what is getting to me; that living in this therapeutic community I ultimately have no choice in who to let in or not into my own home.

Now, let’s put this into context of my own background.
I grew up in a house where I was put through some pretty severe abuse by people living in my home; my oldest brother and also, for a time, by a foster child placed in my family. At the time I didn’t feel able to stop it, didn’t know how to speak up [lots of complex issues, as anyone having experienced abuse will know]. In the end, the only way out I could find – and not before having already suffered through twelve long years of abuse – was to kill myself. It was the only control I felt I had over the situation; the option to live or to not live. So, at the age of 17, I opted to take a cocktail of painkillers and my mother’s various medications.

Needless to say, I didn’t succeed, and – in fairness – looking back, I can see that this was probably a cry for help, for someone to see that something wasn’t right.

To an extent it worked; the abuse came to light and it stopped. Would I call this a happy ending? No. Absolutely not. While the abuse stopped and things came to light; even went to court, I couldn’t call it a happy ending.

You see, even after all of this came to light, after by brother was convicted for what he had done, and despite the fact that everyone believed what I said had happened, I was still expected to carry on seeing him at family dinners and holidays, essentially giving the message that what happened to me didn’t really matter, and his place in the family was still more important than mine.

Me being me, having spent my whole life acting as if everything was fine, of course reverted back to that old habit of acting as if I was OK, as if these messages did me no harm. Not good.

Going back to the present situation, with B. coming into my home [even though this time I have expressly stated that I don't want her here] it evokes in me the same feelings of being helpless, of having no power over who is let into my life; that what I want doesn’t matter.

Realising that the situation wasn’t going to change, that whether I felt OK with it or not, D. would be doing her placement with us, I was faced with a choice. A) To go to the meetings, reverting to the old pattern of pretending that things are fine, putting a brave face on it. Or, B) Not go to the meetings, feeling somewhat driven out of my home, as I don’t want to be around when she’s there, even if I don’t actually attend the meeting.

So far I’ve chosen option B. I say so far, because, of course, there is an option C) Going to the meeting, and not pretend that things are OK, but to speak up with her in the room.

Now, I can certainly see that there would be some value in option C), but – and this is a big but – I honestly don’t feel I am at a place yet where I would be able to do that. And as long as I feel that way, as long as I feel that going to the meeting would make me go back to acting OK, I simply don’t see how that would be a healthy choice. And so, for now, I do the second best; I preserve the boundaries I have set up by choosing not to attend the meeting. I accept that I can’t change B. coming to my house, but I don’t need to be around when that happens.

Except today.

Today is a beautiful, hot, sunny day here in London. Gorgeous, really. It is also the perfect weather for death-by-asthma. The government has even gone so far as to issue a smog alert for this bank holiday weekend.

Despite this, not wanting to be in the house when B. is here, I still tried to brave it this morning and went out. Unfortunately, I had to turn around and head back to the house, because I just couldn’t get enough air in my lunges; the weather and the pollution was simply too much.

So at the moment, I’m in my room, using my inhaler, feeling more than ever as a prisoner in my own home.

Oh well, at least I have the internet here, and I can spend my time exploring where my feelings stem from, and then plague the world with my findings in the form of a blog entry!

Happy Easter, Passover or Spring – whatever floats your boat!

All the very best and much much more,

xx

PS. The trick is to keep breathing.

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Posted in Acceptance, Being Alive, Boundaries, Community, Family Dynamics, Home, Illness, Medication, Music, Psychotherapy Breaks, Psychotherapy with A, Psychotherapy with B, Sexual Abuse, Suicide, Video | 3 Comments »

Bleurgh!

Sunday, February 6, 2011

I feel like crap. Physically, I mean. This is the first time since Friday afternoon I’ve been sitting upright.

I’ve got a pneumonia. Yes, that is grammatically correct; a pneumonia. It’s basically the name used for any infection in the chest, which is concentrated in a specific part of the lung. At least that’s what my GP told me. And it’s no fun to have one.

Went to my GP on Thursday, having had a quite bad pain in my chest since Monday, in combination with a cough, a headache and, later on, a temperature. Told my GP that I didn’t really think it was anything to bother about, that it was most likely down to stress. She listened to my chest and said: “Doesn’t sound like stress, sounds like a pneumonia” and wrote me a prescription for some funky little tablets to take.

I’m fairly confident that this thing is reasonably mild, but it’s still sore as anything, and I feel physically exhausted. Antibiotics are starting to kick in, so I’m beginning to feel better, though, which is a good sign.

Been sleeping almost non-stop since I took to bed on Friday. Well, I say non-stop. That’s not entirely true. One of my housemates has decided to start using the room above mine as her own personal sitting room, and she’s incredibly heavy-footed, so every time she moves around in there I wake up. Not great.

Hm…

You know what? I don’t think I’m really up for this. I think I’m going to go lie down again.

Be good to yourselves,

xx

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Posted in Being Alive, Illness | Leave a Comment »

Poetry, Mourning & High Temperatures

Sunday, November 1, 2009

“..it feels good, it feels like poetry.. don’t ask me to explain.. it just feels good.. like poetry..”

Those are some of my favourite lines of lyrics. From Heather Nova’s Doubled Up off her absolutely divine 1993 Oyster album. Had to squeeze that in somewhere, so why not at the very beginning of my entry? It may or may not be entirely unrelated to the rest of this entry, but it is never irrelevant..

I know I’m doing a bit of update overload at the moment. A bit like the notorious London busses; first you wait and wait and no bus comes, and then there are three arriving at once. The Heinz effect, if you like.

Anyway, on with my update.

Yesterday I came down with what can only be described as a psychosomatic fever. Some people have a digestive system which is finely tuned to pick up on emotional stress. Me, I get a temperature.

I think I’m having a delayed reaction to Dev and I separating.
Yes, I am well aware that it’s over a year since we actually split up and that we haven’t been co-habiting for eleven months. This is why I added the part about a delayed reaction. But, in fairness to myself, there have been things going on lately which have brought these barely repressed emotions to the forefront; these last few weeks I have been helping Dev pack his stuff up, and on Thursday he actually moved out of what was once our flat.

I don’t – at least not on a conscious level – feel particularly concerned about losing Dev. I feel reasonably confident that he won’t just slip out of my life. I base this on the person that he is.

But I do mourn the loss of The Flat.

That may on the surface seem terribly shallow, but it really isn’t.

Moving into that flat was something very special. It wasn’t the first flat Dev and I shared, we’d already been together for about three years by the time we moved there. But, it did involve rather a large amount of trust. You see, I hadn’t seen the flat before moving in there. Dev viewed it on his own, because I couldn’t get away from work, and he just called me up to tell me he’d found The Flat. We decided to put a bid in then and there, and having won said bid I signed on the dotted without even having seen the place. Still, walking through the door for the first time, I knew Dev had been right; it really was The Flat.

We shared some pretty amazing moments in that flat. Long weekends when he’d be on his computer at one end of the room, programming or writing music, and I’d be on mine by the opposite wall, writing. Free-flowing creative moments mixed with a lot of laughter. (..you left me a song..)

But we also experienced some serious lows at that place.
Those of you who have been along for the ride, even at a distance, know what I am talking about. And so, even after Dev and I separated, that flat held memories that I was still dealing with.

Dev, being the incredibly generous person that he is, has, ever since I moved out, allowed me to keep a piece of myself at that flat, has allowed me to come back from time to time to look at it. To remember. To heal. And to begin to let go.

But now, even though Dev, I suspect and hope, will remain a very important person in my life, The Flat is gone. And, so I mourn. Only I am not good at giving myself permission to do so, and, instead, my sorrow is expressed in the form of a temperature.

But..

“..it feels good, it feels like poetry.. don’t ask me to explain.. it just feels good.. like poetry..”

 

xx

Lyrics from Doubled Up © Heather Nova

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Posted in Friends, Illness, Memories, Music, Poetry | Leave a Comment »

Swines, Revenge & Telephone Therapy – An Entry About Isolation

Sunday, July 12, 2009

I’m a strict vegetarian. Or at least I used to be.
Now I’m not so sure. I went down with swine flue last Friday, and right now I’m seriously contemplating settling the score with the blasted pigs by eating as much pork as I possibly can.
You give me flu?? I eat you!
Forget Babe – I want revenge..

That said, I do feel better now. Even able to sit by my beloved computer again.

I was in complete isolation, stuck in my room, for seven (yes, 7!!) long days, and as much as I enjoy my own company, it’s not quite the same when you haven’t a choice in the matter. Especially when you’re too bloody weak to even hold a book to read, and too headachy to watch telly or listen to music to pass the time. Also it didn’t help that I was stressing out, knowing that I’d have to ask to have the deadline for the assignment I’ve been working on moved, since there’s no way I could have sut up for long enough to do it. I hate not being on schedule.

So, what did I do in my state of complete incapacity? Well, a clue is that I can now list all twenty-seven hairline cracks in the paint on my ceiling.. Information I never thought I’d have.

Apart from that I spent a reasonable amount of time on the phone. I’d lie down with the phone resting on my shoulder and just talk to anyone who happened to be home to answer the phone. (My poor friends and family have had to put up with enough crazy Sissi-talk to last them a lifetime.. I’m surprised that they haven’t barred my number yet.) I also checked my email, Facebook and Twitter about every six and a half minutes.. Thank God (and Dev!) for my iPod Touch. Small mobile devices rock when you’re not able to sit up, I’m telling you.
Talk about a window to the world.

Was meant to see A. on Tuesday, but as I was in quarantine I obviously couldn’t go. Instead we had our session over the phone. A first for me, and – I’m guessing – possibly for A., too. It was ok, but also quite different to a normal session; like most people, my concept of telephone conversations is that both parties speak roughly the same amount (and in the case of my sisters both parties speak as much as the other, at the same time…).

This is not the case in a therapy situation. So, naturally, ‘translating’ a face-to-face session, with silences, interpretations and general thinking time, into a telephone call presents something of a challenge. Also, there’s the additional test of having to judge the other’s reaction purely by listening for slight changes in the voice at the other end of the line. Not quite as easy as it is in a face-to-face situation. Needless to say this changes the nature of the entire session. Whilst it’s difficult to not have the person’s subtle non-verbal response immediately available to you, it also, in some ways, makes things easier.

For example, I spent a good deal of time in this session talking about a chance meeting I had with D. (my former counsellor) the previous week. It was a pretty important thing to me, and so, in my head, it had been my plan to bring this up regardless, but – as I discovered – not being able to see A.’s little shifts made it both harder and easier to do so.

As a general I feel quite embarrassed talking about D. with A.; I worry that she will understand whatever I say as some sort of thinly veiled criticism, or as an indication that I wish she’d do things more like the way D. did, which isn’t actually the case. Now, in the consultation room I can judge by A.’s facial expression whether or not she seems to be getting this or not. Over the phone.. Well, those type of clues are taken away from you, and in essence you’re flying in the dark. With the consequence that you end up talking in a different way.

I’m glad I had the phone session with A. I think I needed it. Especially since A. was away for what would have been our Friday-session, and I wanted to talk about her going away before she actually went. But, with regards to some of the other things we talked about (including what I said about meeting with D.), I do feel that I’ll need to come back to it. To, in a sense, ensure that I was understood in the way I had meant.

So, my conclusion is this: phone sessions are good, since you might be able to say things you may have otherwise hesitated to say. But, equally, phone sessions can lead you to say more than what you would have been able to say in a normal session, and so any material brought up will likely need to be revisited and looked at again at a later time.

In short, face-to-face therapy feels more real.
And is scarier.

Much, much scarier.

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Posted in Being Alive, Illness, Psychotherapy, Psychotherapy with A | Leave a Comment »

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