Here lies one of the main reasons why I get tired of people telling me to “seek help”. If you’re one of those people (whether you mean well or not), I suggest you read this, because this is reality for me and for so many others….
As expected, going to my new GP and asking for help was a colossal waste of time. She was nice enough, but the most she could offer me was to be put on the waiting list for CBT, where I’d have had to wait at least 4-6 months. Not only that, but CBT was never effective for me and on the NHS, you only get 6 weeks of it. She wouldn’t change my medication, but wanted to up the dose of the one I’m already taking (Duloxetine), but I refused because higher dosages of Duloxetine caused excessive sweating and weren’t helping my depression or anxiety. I have to go back next week to discuss my chronic lower back pain and also the following week to discuss my medication with the clinical pharmacist, which will also be a waste of time because all they’ll suggest are alternate generic SSRI antidepressants or Propanolol for anxiety (this is what happened when I saw the clinical pharmacist in Runcorn). She told me if I needed trauma therapy because of my PTSD, I’d have to pay for it privately because there isn’t anything like that on the NHS anymore.
At least I was able to prove to the people I’m staying with that there isn’t any help and I gave them a sheet with the number for the local crisis team, not that they’ve ever been any use either. The lady I’m staying with started talking about terminally ill children and made a comment along the lines of how she couldn’t stand people who were physically fit, but chose to “off themselves”, which I think was directed at me, even though I’ve never told her that I wanted to kill myself. Her comment just added to the overall shitness of the day though and I retreated to my room not long after that and went to bed. It’s sad that many people in this day and age of information still choose not to try to understand the pain of mental illness. For some of us, death is far less unappealing than the continuity of a painful and pointless existence.
I don’t even know what ‘help’ I need anyway, besides being admitted to hospital on a long-term basis, where I’d be safe from myself and from the world outside and its many triggers. If those old mental institutions still existed today, I’d gladly be admitted into one, to spend the rest of my days locked up and drugged up enough to barely be conscious. I can’t cope and sooner or later, I’m going to take the permanent solution (the only solution) before I end up on the street or even a danger to others, because my hatred of the toxic human continues to fester inside me and grow.
People keep trying to dissuade me from going to Scotland at the end of the month, but why shouldn’t I? I felt less unsafe there and even if much of what I feel about Brexit England is in my head, it doesn’t make it any less real. I don’t choose to bounce from place to place, as I don’t have a fixed address. I wish I’d stayed put in NY, where I did have help, including weekly sessions with an understanding therapist who I trusted and could be almost completely honest with.
I’ve tried doing everything else within my power to protect my mental health and prevent further deterioration, but that hasn’t worked either. I eat right and I’ve cut right back on drinking. Up until a few months ago, I went on long bike rides, but I feel far too physically and mentally tired and debilitated to do that anymore (I have no idea why I feel this way now versus 6 months ago).
I’m going to save this blog entry to refer to as proof for the next time some idiot do-gooder tells me to “get help”; there is no help here, unless you can afford to pay for it privately (which I can’t). At least no one can say that I haven’t been trying. Even if I’d stayed in one place long enough, the most I’d have got is 6 weeks of CBT and a prescription for another useless SSRI, or to be told to go to a mindfulness group (fuck that). I will not call The Samaritans either, because all they do is ‘listen’ and that won’t help me. Just talking about it doesn’t help at all and I find it incredibly frustrating.