PLEASE BE AWARE: THE FOLLOWING POST CONTAINS TRIGGERING IMAGES OF SELF HARM. PLEASE DO NOT CONTINUE IF YOU MAY BE AT RISK
So, Lyn phoned the doctor and I was assigned a community psychiatric nurse (CPN) called Vicki, who came out to assess me the next day. I was quickly given an appointment with a psychiatrist, and was put on to a higher dose of Quietiapine, and given Escitalopram and Diazepam to take routinely throughout the day. Vicki and I went through my life story, how I was feeling and what had caused those feelings. She was the first person to mention to be about Borderline Personality Disorder. She though my behaviours were very indicative of it; the lack of communication skills, intensity of relationships, up and down moods (I told her about the diagnosis of cyclothymia but she agreed with me that it didn’t sit right, I could change from extreme happiness to extreme depression in a matter of minutes rather than a matter of weeks); self harm; thoughts of suicide – the list went on. One issue did arise within my life story, the reasons behind my escorting.
I guess, party because I was ashamed, and partly because I did not have a good enough reason, I lied. In hindsight, to get better, you have to be completely honest with the person that is trying to help you, and in the end, it turned aroun and bit me on the ass anyway. I told her that whilst at university I had got into a bad crowd, got addicted to cocaine, and built up a debt, which I needed to pay off. It was total crap, but how could I say to her I did it just because I wanted to? What normal person does that thing because they wake up one day and decide they are going to? She kept saying, how brilliant I was as a person to do that for myself, how strong and brave. All I could think of was that I was not strong and brave, I was weak, pathetic and a whore.
At this time, I was having little contact with my parents, and what contact I did have was awkward. I was signed off sick from work with stress, and did not go out. I spent the majority of my day sitting on the sofa, asleep, or out of it on valium. I guess in a lot of ways I blamed my parents for the way I was, in particular my mother. I had, by this time, started to assume that my attention seeking as a young child was because of the lack of it provided by my parents; whether that is right or wrong – I don’t know. My mother knew nothing of what I had been doing, apart from when I came out as a lesbian with Jean, and that I had self harmed in the past. She did not like to discuss it and so we avoided sensitive subjects for most of the time.
One day, she arrived at the house and announced that she wanted to know what was going on. I decided that now was the time to sit down and tell her everything about how I felt about my unbringing and get it all out in the open. Unfortunately instead of her reacting in a positive way, she became defensive. I suppose I should have expected it, most people would not take kindly to that kind of criticism. She told me how much of a difficult and awful daughter I had been, and how I should have been better, should have been there for her when she had some health issues previously. She would not accept the responsibility I wanted her to and I suddenly realised that it was me to blame after all, it had been all along. I began to dissasociate, I could feel it. Lyn told my mother it was probably best if she left, which she did. I got up, and walked upstairs. I knew what I was going to do before I did it. I went to my room, found a razor, and went to the bathroom. I knew there was going to be a lot of blood and that I needed to be in there, but a lot of thoughts were hazy by this point. It was if life was moving slowly, there was only one destination and there was no way I could change course.
After I had cut, my head was clearer. I knew I had done serious damage as I could see inside my arm, it was worse than I had ever cut before. I wrapped it in a bandage, and called Lyn, who called Vicki who told her to take me to A & E.
Take Care. x