Today started out so well. I finished my second university assignment after being granted an extension, watched new Game of Thrones and got ready in plenty of time for my appointment with the ANP – Advanced Nurse Practitioner in case you were wondering. From what I recalled from that long ago appointment with Dr Nutkins-May, the point of seeing the ANP was to keep up with my medication changes.
Turns out, Dr Nutkins-May has no fucking idea what he’s doing with me. Or so it seems, anyway.
Before I went in to see the nurse, I overheard a particularly heated discussion between her and another service user. There were a few mentions of feeling let down by the mental health services as she pleaded her case to the nurse, before her voice got louder and she eventually stormed out of the room. She shouted back at her to ‘fuck off’ before charging out of the clinic. I held my breath slightly as the nurse called me in, hoping she wouldn’t be in a mood from the previous agitated appointment. As I sat down I was asked if I knew what the purpose of our meeting was, so I told her about what I’d discussed with Dr Nutkins-May – that was when she sighed and said he’d got it wrong again.
You see, the ANP’s job is to get me ready to be discharged from the mental health services back to my GP. Wait a fucking minute! We’re in the middle of swapping around medications, and there was the promise of further therapy as well as building a case for me to get access to a CPN, and he’s sent me to be discharged?! Before we got to dealing with that clusterfuck, she very kindly agreed to lower my venlafaxine down to 150mg from 225mg as the side effects have become a problem. The lamotrigine will stay at 50mg for now, though she was not pleased to hear that I had to get my dosage altered myself without the psych seeing me to chat about it.
As we were talking, there was a knock on the door and the Husband was lead in – he came straight from work just to see if I was done but I was running late thanks to the angry patient before me. When I told him that Dr Nutkins-May had goofed yet again, he was not amused. We both thought we were past this bullshit. I told the nurse that I had yet to cement a solid medication routine and that I still had no access to therapy or a CPN. Although it was brutal to hear, she respected my intelligence and self-awareness enough to tell me that I am just not ill enough to warrant being allocated a CPN. As far as DBT was concerned too, it’s a small service with places being given to those who are already on the edge of doing serious damage to themselves.
…I started crying. I told her that I feel like I’m being punished by those who are supposed to help me, simply because I’m not ‘ill enough’. The reason that I don’t have a bulging case file is because I spent a very long time just dealing with my shit myself, because that’s just how I got through life. She asked me why I was reaching out for help now. “Because if I don’t get the help, I won’t live past 30,” I replied, “It’s a miracle I’ve made it to 26 as it is, I never thought I’d live past 18 so I need the help.” I should not be pushed aside because I tried to do it on my own, nor should my own strength be seen as a hindrance in getting help. At least she acknowledged how hard I’d worked on myself and
commended the fact I’d done it, which means a lot. I told her that I wasn’t angry at her, it’s not her fault that she’s basically the bearer of the news that my psychiatrist is basically a bumbling old man who got her role in my treatment wrong. I also said that my faith in the system is waning, which is bad considering what I’m trying to do with my life.
The plan as of right now is to go back and see her in four weeks to check how I’m doing on 150mg of venlafaxine and maybe bump it down again, or perhaps increase the lamotrigine to make up for the lower venlafaxine dose. She’s also going to go back to Nutkins-May to get me a referral to Psychology so I can get some fucking therapy of some sort, as I’ve been waiting for nearly two fucking years.
After I came out of the clinic, I went into town to
have a look around – there’s now a NYX counter in the big Boots so I wanted to have a peruse – and as I walked near the Bullring I saw some very loud preachy Christian types. Not a totally unusual sight, and as one of them offered me a leaflet I politely declined. I’m not religious but I’m not a dick either. The guy then loudly proclaimed that I ‘needed Jesus’, to which I replied, “No I don’t!” and carried on walking. In that split second, I wanted to turn on my heel and scream at that guy. No Mr. Knobgobbler, I don’t need Jesus. I need a psychiatrist who knows what he’s doing. I need support beyond said fuckwad psychiatrist. I need a solid care plan. I need my illness to be taken as seriously as it should be. And right at that moment, I needed a Nutella doughnut from Krispy Kreme.
Imagine my heartbreak when I went to get said doughnut only to find that they’d sold out. If I could have thrown a massive nuclear tantrum at that point, oh I would have. Fuck you Nutkins-May. Fuck you cockface Christian. Fuck you Krispy Kreme. Just, fuck you all.