This is definitely not the way I had planned on returning but hey what the hell! I tried really hard all day to tell myself that it could wait for five days. Surely, your pride isn’t that pricked but nope… I’m definitely pissed with the way I was misrepresented. And that’s by a mental health professional… The surgeons back in January, I get it slightly but this is quite literally taking the bloody piss. Let me quickly bring you up to date…
I suffer, apparently, from Borderline Personality disorder. Not only have I known there is a problem with me for years but I have quite frankly denied it and blamed it all on depression. Then it dawned on me that, no… there’s a problem and it’s eating me up. But my problem also makes me do things that aren’t quite helpful like isolating myself. I distrust most mental health professionals, doctors I laugh at a lot less but they are my next favourite comics! So I’ve taken my sweet time in asking for proper help. Then in January, I went for a hernia operation still arguing that stitching my abdominal wall would be far easier. I’ve had four c-sections, I’m not going to have another kid in a hurry but still. Well the mesh got infected! I nursed the abscess for five days before going to hospital. Turned out that out of three urgent cases needing surgeries on that night, I won out not because I was yelling throughout the pre op area that I would be getting the canular out and I’d be yelling throughout the hospital if a doctor didn’t return fast… I won out because I had sepsis and I had stopped making any noise… I still get flash backs from that night. I wake up feeling as though I had just had surgery. The sight of the scar makes me feel sick… everything about me has changed and is still fucking up all over the place. Then my memory started to leave. Imagine talking about your own father but not remembering his laugh… he only passed away ten years ago! But all of the sudden I remember the day my mother left me?! It’s not a fair exchange… so I went and I asked for help. I actually told the truth, no holding back. Because usually, I don’t say everything that I should or I answer as vaguely as possible… I don’t like them… I really do not like them now though!
I have never in my entire life, forty years of shit, been so misrepresented! I have problems but I’m not stupid! Talk about a bloody slap in the face! I expected to be sent packing back to my GP to be dosed up so I shut up but you know what, I like talking. And after all while I’m suffering from flashback, maybe I’ll spend a little bit of time actually “journalling” while I have episode after episode. I bet you, just like the moment mummy dearest opened the passenger seat the day she left me behind came back after what? thirty eight years? It’ll be back… One of my biggest issue is keeping grudges… and man can I keep these for a long time! You employ foreign professionals on the NHS, fair enough. It’s not like there aren’t British born doctors but who am I to talk… I’m French! But can’t they learn to bloody learn the fucking language? (I apologise, if I haven’t warned you before, because the title implied that I AM BACK and that means my mouth is off, I swear when I’m angry. I swear a lot. Excuse my French! ) By my own experience, it takes a whole year in order to keep a solid conversation with a medical professional. By then, if you can argue with a doctor and win the argument, you’re good to go! I mean it… I’m not impressed… So while out of “politeness” I’m not going to name anyone… I’ll just say they really had me fooled! Ha!
It started well, my name was spelled correctly for once… once! It’s not really all that difficult. I have a perfectly normal name, even for a chick! Laurence! How can you fuck that one up when I confirmed to you its spelling? No the dumb mug went with a good one… Laurance. Now that does look as ugly as the name sounds in my mother tongue… Imagine Hercule Poirot saying it. You’re welcome for the giggle! It then got a little better… one surgery referred me but the freak is sending the report to who? My last GP! Oh yes, I’m going to get that help… and they want me on antidepressants? Oh… I’m not all that sure I can trust your opinion sweet cakes! But let’s not just get overly worried… surely it couldn’t get any worse… yeah I hoped too… they wrote please… on the action plan part. Please… what the frog me side ways til Wednesday! And I’m the one with the mental health issue here? Please? You’re sending my action plan with please on it to the wrong GP! No one is going to pay heed to this… please… my physical health status according to his “professional” is (and I quote “Bowels because of 4 caesarians and surgeries “. Now I get what they were trying to convey. Do you though? It’s a bloody secretary who’s going to try to find who is that patient, whose file she will not find in her cabinet, wondering what the fuck! And I won’t buy the “we don’t read…” I have eyes, “please”. It truly cracks me up… the wrong way sadly. And it goes on… You know I thought up to a few days ago that I had two friends. You know mummies from my boy’s school with whom I get along and seemed to have a rather good rapport with. I found that I messages have a habit of being ignored. I don’t have THAT many friends… so who the fuck told the idiot that I had adequate social contact?! I’m not being funny but I am the last person you’ll see making plans to go out with friends because my friends, the ones who KNOW me and like me… they are fucking too far for that shit! And I told that to this to them… I did… I have wailed openly about how I have been making a habit of isolating myself to the point where even around people I know I feel uncomfortable… how the fuck can I not need help?! Let me know this please because aside from the fact that I am preparing myself for nearly a week of sugar highs just so I can fucking get out of my “shell”. Do you know how unsettling it is for me to feel this way when I am NOT shy! At all but I am losing all the good social skills. All that’s left is alive because I was taught fear of bad manners that I talk. Otherwise I’d disappear fast and not resurface. But sure, I have adequate social contact. Two adults and two kids. A couple of chats with the till ladies at Tescos and the neighbours once a months or two if we’re lucky. Ok… I beg to differ and I am mentally ill.
But there’s more. I don’t get so indignant over such triffle. Yes I mean the pudding. Whatever their qualifications are; not worth the price of a Marks and Spencer luxury triffles!
So… Medication? No, I am not taking any medication! Are you bloody kidding me?! I explicitly said that I wasn’t against and would do whatever was needed to help BUT I had to be sure that there was nothing else. Last time I was trusted with this crap, I took a box and it took me a fortnight to recover physically from that. My brain… I can’t quite say, I don’t remember much apart from my best friend nursing me. Yeah… No, I want to talk. Like now, frankly and if it’s what I must do for someone to take me seriously, like my borough, apparently using their logic against them seems to be the only option. You reckon I can be fobbed off with medication so I can just stop bleeting, I’m afraid that “baaaaahhhhhaaaaaa” until I get a second and third opinion, your antidepressant might as well make their way to your bedside table and you may use them as suppositories my dear but I will not touch anything suggested by an idiot who can’t a) speak English b) tell the bloody truth.
I don’t have the time to type it all out to show you the state of the pathetic statement this numbty signed under their name. Not that it matters, aside from me, it seems that no one else will see it. Well, they think! I’m not so forgiving the third time! And I’m still chewing on the fucking fifty something hipster who sat in front much in the same manner Jeremy Clarkson does when an idiot is talking to him, while I was bowling over the flash backs that had plagued me all day. Never mind telling me that he’d return to check up on my state before I was discharged while not fucking bothered, he’d already signed me out as suffering from issues due to physical reasons. Well you don’t fucking say! I sat all day in A & E, in agony, scared to death that I was going to die! I thought I was never going to say anyone I loved again. They dumped the word sepsis on me as though it was nothing to worry about! But no, of course, fix the body and the mind will follow. Fucking wankers! Sure I’ll go counseling over the domestic abuse, if I actually still needed it but you see, someone cared enough to teach me that not all men beat women. He cared enough to let me learn at my pace so what fucking use will it be for me to return there?! I don’t need that! I need to stop what is going on! It is eating my memories, it is changing ME!
Oh don’t get me wrong, my bowels are behaving like bitches with me but excuse me… they have been man handled THREE times in two years. It’ll take time for them to recover from it. That’s not what is triggering the flashbacks though, is it? It’s definitely my brain. I don’t want them to just go. I want to understand what’s going on with me! If I’m not me or if I’m regressing, so be it, let’s work on it, not numb it! I was described as “Unkempt”. I fucking take offense to that! I showered, creamed my dry skin. Put on capri pants, I vest and a cardigan. My apologies if you don’t like my choice of colours but if you took a good look at me, if I wear bright colours, I look like a demented parrot! And I’m not being funny but where do they get off with this? It wasn’t me who took a look at their legs and shrieked “What haaaappened?!” I’m not skilled at shaving, you dumb rude thing!
“Perception… No abnormalities reported”
I do not to talk much about this but I’m pretty sure that I do feel like most people really don’t like me. People I know. People I should know better thinking such things of but yet it’s there in my bloody head. But no my perceptions are all just fine. Until what?! Until I no longer talk to no one… then I won’t bother anyone. Then what?! Oh we know that… No. Nah… not going that path. No, I’m going to publish this, I’m going to finish all my packing and I’m going to have fun. And when I get back. Well when I’m back I’m going to be crying out very loud over this. I’m going to be noisy and I’m not going to play fair, much like you bloody ignorants who automatically assume that just giving us meds is fine. Let us dink deeper in the abyss. Only, it’s not just me who goes through this. I personally I’m used to it. I’ll survive, with scars all over my soul but it’s what I watch happening as it happens. I am not easy to live with and it HAS to end.
So since it all went so bad after my first surgery… and in spite of the gratefulness I have for those who have helped me recover, I’m going to make such noise, you’ll have to pay attention. Not just to me but to all of us who need the help. One at a time, I’ll start it for me but I won’t stop here… I would have died without the NHS but I’m going to die because of it too if I don’t get my arse in gear. At the rate I’m going, I’ll get depressed. I’ve already forgotten the sound of my Dad’s laughter… You’ve not idea what a motivator that is for me to not want to lose much more of these memories.
Right, Have a lovely time. I’ll reply to any comment next week and I hope you’re not all too sad that I’m back with such a tantrum but I needed it. Where else could I have picked?!
Your Very Own Harlequine 😉
P.s: For the newbies, I’m allergic to editing. One reason only, if I read this again,I’ll end up not doing it.