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Child of the Pure Unclouded Brow

F*cking hell. So, I just read over my article from last week, apologies guys that was pretty bleak. I’m sure you’ll be glad to read that this week’s is even bleaker. Well, to start with at least.

So, the article went online last Saturday and then last Sunday I contemplated suicide. This is the third time I have seriously considered this, though thankfully I am yet to act on it. I’d spent the entire evening crying to my housemates, poor beast*rds, about how I was an awful person, that I had no clue what was happening to me and, above all, that I was scared. Bless them, they hugged me, made me cups of tea and we watched ‘Chris Packham: Asperger’s And Me’ (it was bloody fantastic).

I eventually went up to my room, and all of the crying came back out and I had a panic attack. I felt I was now at my lowest, I saw no escape or hope and felt empty. I’ll spare you any further details, unsurprisingly, the next morning I woke up pretty shaken. I rang my boyfriend and best friend in total hysterics. Although I hadn’t ended my life I thought that I was past the point of return. They managed to calm me down and told me I needed to do something about this.

I rang the Advice and Counselling services and although, initially, I couldn’t get an appointment, I was informed later that day that my previous councillor was available for a chat over the phone on Friday – thank God. I then called 111, I had a mental health assessment and it was concluded I needed the crisis team to call me and assess me.

I was told they’d contact me within the next hour, this was at 10am – fast forward to 4:30pm and I had now rung their hotline three times with each person telling me a different thing. The first person I called only told me I would get contacted at some point in the day, but they couldn’t say exactly when. The next person I called said I’d definitely be called in the afternoon, early evening max, and when I explained that I was only staying in London for this phone call, he informed me that if I wanted to go home to Fareham, they could transfer me to the team down there. However, the last person I spoke to, I won’t lie made me want to put their head through a brick wall. To summarise, she turned around, and said I was never going to be spoken to that day, they couldn’t transfer me to the team in Fareham and that I had to do the whole process with 111 again. The way she spoke to me was disgusting, she treated me as if I was moaning about my broadband connection and not the fact I was in a f*cking crisis and no one was helping me. I didn’t get angry, that doesn’t solve anything, I just passively aggressively finished with ‘Thank you so much for your help and have a lovely day.’

I then made the journey home that evening; I needed to get out of London by this point. The next morning: Tuesday, my friend decided some art therapy could be fun for me. I made a mood board – which was actually really fun. From the pictures above of our boards, you might assume that it was my disturbed mind which produced the one on the left. No no, that is my friend’s – concerningly she is a social worker. I also had the hassle of ringing 111 again, this time the woman on the phone was in total panic, telling me I needed to get down to the Suicide Prevention Centre at A&E within the next hour. I managed to convince her that this method was wholly unnecessary, though I think she was a second away from whacking out the straight jacket. I was then transferred to their mental health department. This woman was really nice and helpful, she understood that I felt substantially better being at home. However, she explained that 111 cannot refer people to the crisis team. I think every person makes up what they can do as they go, but that my options were to go to the Suicide Prevention Centre. She said they wouldn’t be any real help to me as I wasn’t a risk to myself anymore apparently, or to go to my local GP as a temporary resident.

In order to get an emergency appointment, I had to call the surgery at 8:30am the next day, Wednesday. I got one and the GP was so helpful, he explained my best way to get CBT, (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy), was through iTalk. Annoyingly, I’d meant to sign up to this millions of times, but I always forgot. And he made me finally accept that I needed to be on medication to at least stabilise my behaviour.

So, it’s now Thursday morning and I am sat in my room, trying to work out what the f*ck has gone on over the last four days. I’m not saying in any sense that I feel better, I wish it was that easy, but I’m glad I’m back to being proactive about my mental health. Rather than being reactive, which has been my mentality over the last couple of months.

Yes, I travelled right down to the bottom of the rabbit hole and though my little white tail has been singed, I’m back b*tches.

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