I’m having a bit of a difficult week.
On Monday I handed in the paperwork for the house to the estate agent. I am waiting to find out if they can find anything wrong with me via credit checks and references. I’ve never had a credit problem in my life, but you know what it’s like to be checked out – it’s kind of similar to feeling inexplicably guilty as you walk past a cop! One potential sticking point is my landlady. They needed a reference from her, and I am really worried that she’s going to give them a load of crap about me being a bad tenant. In my books, if someone is polite, tidy and doesn’t destroy the place they are a good tenant, even if you don’t necessarily end up being best friends. Lets hope she’s not that spiteful. I should find out what’s going on within the next week.
My counselling class on Monday brought up quite a lot of crap. We were looking at endings and referrals, which reminded me of something which still makes me feel angry and upset now even though it happened eight years ago – when the first psychologist I saw for therapy, who I was far too attached to, got a new job and left without referring me on to anyone else. She said she didn’t want to send me to the adult services because they might label me with something that could follow me around, and that I had been seeing her for a year and probably needed a break from therapy. I got her point, really, but in my defence I had been raped after eleven of those months of therapy, and had newly developed PTSD. I was 18 years old and almost psychotic with anxiety, I should have been given someone to get in touch with when things inevitably went pear shaped, even if it had only been check ups every few months with one of the adult CMHT psychiatrists. But what actually happened was that she went off to her new job, leaving me terrified and heartbroken, and I didn’t get any further help for the next four years as I fell down the gap between the adolescent and adult services. This was in no small part due to the fact that it sounded to me as if my psychologist thought I SHOULD be able to cope on my own, and if I asked for more help I would be letting her down. By the time I got a referral to deal with my PTSD it was too late, and I was admitted to hospital for being suicidal while I was still on the year-long therapy waiting list.
When I was seeing this psychologist as a teenager I put her on a pedestal, but now I think she was decidedly human, and she let her feelings get in the way of her professional duties. She wanted me to be okay so much that she blinded herself to reality and left me more screwed up than I was when I started seeing her. The ending/referral issue isn’t the only reason I say this, there were other odd occurrences throughout our sessions, but this was the most confusing and damaging of them. So I was sitting in my counselling class on Monday quietly fuming. I know, it’s been such a long time that I should be over it by now, but things that get mixed up with PTSD can sit around in your head for a very long time before you become able to deal with them, and all of this happened only a couple of months after the rape.
So yeah. Humph.
Tuesday wasn’t too bad, except that I wasn’t feeling very well. I’ve been getting stabbing pains in my stomach, sides and chest for a couple of weeks now, and I have an odd taste in my mouth, a vague sensation of heartburn/reflux and other symptoms which are TMI for my blog, but trust me when I say that they are out of the ordinary even with my usually weird digestive system. Of course my doctor thinks it’s anxiety, but I am not entirely sure how anxiety could cause the nasty taste in my mouth, and I am more inclined to suspect that I have fallen foul of another fungal infection. The one I developed in York wasn’t the only one I’ve ever had, they like to colonise me whenever I’m a bit run down, I must be tasty. Anyway, I don’t feel well, no one believes that it’s a real physical problem and I can’t afford antifungals unless I get them on prescription, or probiotics at all. Obviously I can’t eat probiotic yoghurts either, because on balance I think eating substances that I am allergic to would cause more damage than putting up with a fungal infection! I could try and quit eating sugar for a couple of weeks and see if that helps, but I would probably lose more weight if I did that, because I rely on quick and convenient food and desserts to get in enough calories in the absence of having any time to myself in the kitchen.
I hate my body. Not in the way that most people with a history of eating disorders do, I don’t give a crap about what it looks like, I just wish it would bloody well work properly!
On Tuesday night I only slept for four hours, so on Wednesday I got told off by my landlady over some new, tiny, imaginary misdemeanour and got into a bit of a fight with my boyfriend, because that is what happens when people don’t sleep. It turns me into a small human version of a grizzly bear. I stomped about for a bit then texted Fiona, who got a coffee while I alternately moaned and yawned at her (not because she bored me, because I was knackered!). That was probably a sensible thing to do because my head was exploding and I was close to feeling overwhelmed. I had calmed down a bit by the time I got home and went to bed ASAP. Then got up for 9am this morning to be patronised by my GP. Honestly, WHY do doctors automatically assume that if someone has a mental health problem, everything that goes wrong with them must be down to anxiety? When I was studying OT we learned that the same goes for people with learning disabilities – they get much worse care than other people because professionals only see the LD and overlook physical conditions which can be treated. Fail, fail, fail. GRRR. Show me a medical textbook in which it states “anxiety can cause a weird-ass taste in your mouth despite brushing your teeth twice a day” and I will shut up.
Okay, whinge over. If anyone has a solution to any of the above, please let me know. Listening to “Don’t Worry Be Happy” while drinking vodka is probably not the sort of solution I’m after. Mmm, vodka.