Hitting Crisis Point

This week has been hard. It started out hard. It continued to be hard. Work phoned me asking me to go to an occupational health meeting, which my anxiety means I can't do, and they started the conversation about whether I'd come back at all. They asked me to phone back on Thursday to tell them what I'd decided.  On top of that I had a PIP assessment scheduled on Friday. The result of this added pressure was a complete melt down.

It started with a panic attack on Thursday. My heart raced. My throat closed so I couldn't swallow or breathe and the thoughts in my head spiralled out of control. I cut to regain control. I cut a lot. And my mind was telling me to cut deep enough to die. Normally I cut my left leg, my calf is scars from ankle to knee. Thousands of marks on my skin. But right then it wasn't enough. I've cut the other leg too. I've cut my arm.

It took a lot for my husband and friend to calm me down. My friend wanted me to phone the Crisis Team and it was after work hours before I managed to get cleaned up and go downstairs. I missed my chance to phone human resources but tried to push it out of my mind because my husband had been trying to phone my boss all day, he'd sort it the next day. I thought I'd come through the panic attack, but I hadn't.

The worries didn't stop swirling and lying in bed at night, I wanted everything to stop. I didn't want to deal with work and my failure to keep my job. I didn't want to deal with a PIP assessor judging me. I decided I would rather die. I wasn't sure were husband had my pills and he'd removed all sharp objects after my earlier self-harm session. However, I knew he'd left his car keys hanging from the front door. I knew I could get up, go downstairs, drive away, drive off the coastal cliffs. So I rolled over and woke up my husband. I told him to phone the Crisis Team.

The last time I'd felt so bad, I started swallowing pills. I intended to swallow enough to kill myself. I'd promised the doctors that if it happened again, I'd phone the Crisis Team. Initially, attempting that made me worse. The Crises Team triage nurse asked why we hadn't phoned a GP earlier. Why I hadn't contacted my GP for something for anxiety. It made me feel I'd done the wrong thing calling. She added guilt to my already swirling emotions. But that wasn't all. One of the first things I said was that I'd tried to overdose on fluoxetine previously, then when I said I was planning to get in the car and drive off a cliff, the conversation went something like this. (Paraphrased slightly because I wasn't fully focused and 4am while planning my demise.)

Nurse: "Have you ever done something like this before?"
Me: "Well I've gotten in the car and started driving before..."
Nurse: "No, no... But you didn't actually do it."
Me: ... At this point I was dumbfounded and couldn't say what I was thinking, which was 'clearly not as you're talking to me tonight.'
Nurse: "Have you ever attempted suicide before?"
Me: "As I said earlier, I've taken a planned overdose of fluoxetine before."

Right then, I was back to thinking my depression wasn't bad enough. My suicidal thoughts weren't bad enough. The nurse thought I should've phoned my GP, not her, even though my GP referred me to the Community Mental Health Team because I need specialist help. Then getting in a car and starting a drive towards death wasn't enough because I turned back. What she failed to realise was that to me, that drive and my attempted overdose are the same. Someone intervened.

With the overdose, my husband came in and grabbed the pills off me then phoned the paramedics. During the twice I've almost taken the car and gone, a chance phone call has intervened. Once, my husband phoned just as I put the key in the ignition. He said my son wanted mammy to come in and say goodnight before he went to bed. (I'd come home from work and parked outside, then spent an hour thinking about suicide before putting the key in the ignition and preparing to do it.) My son wanting me was enough to draw me into the house.

The second time, when I actually did start driving, I had to pull over because I was crying too hard to drive. My mam phoned. She talked. She persuaded me to wait for my husband to come to me. He did, with our kids in the car as we had no babysitters. Seeing my kids dragged me back from going through with my plan. To me, there's no difference between the overdose and the times I got in the car. In all three cases I was intent on completing my plan. I was going through the motions of doing it. On three occasions, my family intervened.

On paper, I've made one suicide attempt, and because of how few pills I managed to take I feel medical professionals don't feel I was genuine. What they don't realise is that my husband had to grab the pills away because I continued swallowing them even after he came in. They don't hear the desperation of those telephone conversations in my car. To me, I've started implementing suicide plans on three occasions. 

If I'd actually driven off the cliff, it would have been a suicide, not an attempted suicide. What I did was an attempt, an attempt where my husband intervened. Turning on the ignition was the same to me as swallowing the first pill. Putting my foot on the accelerator was the second. Releasing the handbrake was the third. Pulling out of my street was the fourth. To me, each step forward made it more likely I'd kill myself, but until the point of death there was still a chance for my family to intervene. At the moment the triage nurse said 'but you didn't do it', my need to get in the car grew exponentially. I wanted to hang up. Fight my husband for his keys. I wanted to end it all so I didn't have to fight anymore.

After that the nurseasked me if the Crisis Team could send someone around to talk to me. I said I didn't know because I'm not good with strangers and her phrasing had made me feel guilty for phoning., in response, she asked to speak to my husband and I handed over the phone. That was when the nurse asked my husband if I seemed 'reluctant to engage' and his temper started to fray.

He told her that I that I'd been trying to get help for months. That I'd told him to phone because I wanted help. He told her that she'd made me feel guilty for phoning. He even asked her what her job actually was, and that's not like him at all. I'm not sure if she answered that, but he agreed she could send people over. Then I sat in fear, wondering if someone as guilt inducing as the triage nurse would turn up on my door step.

Luckily, the two guys who came out were really nice. They listened. They discussed options. They agreed with me and my family that I needed immediate help but that hospitalisation would do more damage than good. At 5am in the morning, two strangers walked in, listened, and came up with a plan. Once again, I'd had to be ready to die before that help arrived, but it was there, and that was a good thing. They promised to arrange a psychiatrist visit for later that day (Friday) or Monday at the latest. They promised I'd see a nurse on Friday if the doctor couldn't come, and on Saturday. Then they told me to wrap up and have a hot drink and they went on their way to begin formulating a treatment plan.

I'd like to say I was grateful, because I was, although the emotion was felt through a fog. I was exhausted. I'd cried myself out. I felt completely disconnected but at least I was safe and someone had promised help. I thought that if I could endure the PIP assessment, I'd be OK...

But, of course, Atos don't have a reputation for treating PIP applicants well.

Continued in next post...

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx