I suppose I should be thankful for that. I’m’ 30 now – a milestone I always looked forward to reaching because by now I had always planned on having that loving husband, those little babies, and that first home together. Needless to say, the week leading up to my 30th was torturous. Not only are none of those things on the horizon at all, I look around and see all my friends with their husbands, houses and babies, and see the evidence that it’s because I’m different and broken.
Naturally I’d say to another person that it’s just a number, and why would you want all of those things right now, and why are you comparing yourself to other people, you’re too adventurous for all that just yet. It’s true, of course. Once I turned 30 I calmed down a bit. It’s a new chapter, a new decade, but for the first time in my life I have no plans and no direction. I guess I could say that I’m lucky to be here at the drawing board, and I’m sure there are people who would love to be in my position. I am lucky.
But I’m also a mess. I’m off work, (for the second Monday in a row) because I can’t seem to handle weekends any more. Two mere days with no plans or timetable where I’m left to my own devices. Friday evening was good. I’d made plans for Saturday. Saturday went well, I wobbled Saturday night. Sunday I was looking forward to a good walk in the forest, followed by a dear friend’s daughter’s 7th birthday party, except I couldn’t face the walk, and although I drove to my friend’s I couldn’t get out the car. I spent the day at home, slurring my words with my brain in a fog because I couldn’t cope with all the emotions of the day. The guilt of missing the party. The dread of having to tell people I was ok when I clearly wasn’t.
I reluctantly agreed to meet with a psychiatrist last week after my Care-Coordinator said it would be good for me to have ‘that conversation’ with them. They psych told me she didn’t believe in labels, just symptoms of different mental illnesses that could be treated with drugs. Right. Well, I happen to believe in my label because it proves I’m not a nasty, evil person, and explains why I struggle and suffer every single day. After about ten minutes she told me I was depressed. I told her I wasn’t depressed, that I had BPD, and that I had been depressed before and this was nothing like it. I said I was suffering from massive abandonment issues, and splitting, that was making my life hell. She again told me I was suffering from depression and anxiety. I explained to her in detail what depression feels like, and what anxiety feels like to me (because I’ve suffered both before), and that this isn’t what I was suffering from. She switched from wanting to give me anti-depressants to mood stabilisers within moments. I told her I didn’t want any drugs at all, and that the last set of anti-depressants I was on kept me in bed for a fortnight as they essentially turned me into a zombie. She told me I was wrong and that they don’t do that. I was stunned! I said I don’t want drugs because I want the proper treatment as should be prescribed by the National Institute of Clinical Excellence guidelines. She snapped ‘they’re just guidelines’.
Well this is just my life, Bitch, and you can stick your meds up your ass. This was the first time I really tried to advocate for myself and I left feeling like a useless idiot. I can only hope that there is an actual person at the end of this 7-month psychology wait, and not another compassion-less robot.