This Is Madness

Continued from last post...

So, having had an awful night which resulted in me being taken onto the Crisis Team's caseload, I had to wait for a PIP assessor to come and assess if my condition really is all that bad. Her time slot was 10:30 to 12:30. We'd arranged for her to come to the house my late father left me (because my husband is renovating the house so we can move in, and as I am a risk to myself I have to go with him.) I only go between our permanent address and the house which will become my permanent address. They're the only places I feel safe, and they're only a 10 minute drive apart.

Any way, as I said, we'd arranged for the meeting to be at my dad's but at 10:36 the assessor phoned to ask where I was because she'd gone to the other house. The conversation went like this...

Assessor: But this is where you live.
Me: Yes, but we have another house we're renovating and my husband called last week to make sure you could come here, not there.
Assessor: Oh no, we can only see people in their home. We'll have to cancel and reschedule.
Me (becoming ever more frantic, anxious, and frustrated): But this is my house too. It's where we're going to move to. My husband phoned and arranged this! Don't you understand what you're doing? How anxious this meeting has made me? I have a mental health problem. Anxiety has led me to cut over this. I had a panic attack yesterday and cut loads. I had to have the Crisis Team out last night because I wanted to kill myself!
Assessor: Ok. It's ok. I'll come to where you are.

She asked for the address. She asked for the post code. Fifty minutes later we'd pretty much come to realise she'd lied and wasn't prepared to make the ten minute drive between houses. Five minutes later my mobile rang and I handed it to my husband because I couldn't bear to answer. Sure enough it was Atos saying they were going to have to cancel they appointment and rearrange something. They guy on the phone asked to speak to me. He said there'd been an altercation. A claim I denied. I'd gotten frustrated but there hadn't been an altercation. Anyway, I couldn't grasp what he wanted considering it was their mistake which had caused the problem, so I gave the phone back to my husband.

It turns out the guy from Atos didn't mean altercation. He meant alteration. They'd altered my address of one database but not the other, and the assessor took my address from the unaltered database. Basically, they were adding further uncertainty to the life of someone suffering mental distress because their assessor had read the wrong database that morning. Yet that meant I'm going to be logged as having missed my assessment. It wasn't great news when I was still suffering the after effects of my night of panic and self-loathing.

I honestly feel sorry for my husband. He had to speak to the first Atos guy extensively, then he had to talk to one of Atos's nurses who was supposedly checking I was alright. Then he had to speak to a DWP nurse supposedly wanting to know the same. Then he had to speak to a nurse saying they wanted to try to process my application without a meeting, but the Crisis Team wouldn't release the information they needed. Matt then had to phone the Crisis Team, but accepts entirely that they can't release information without written permission from me. He then had to phone my doctor's surgery and leave a message with my GP stating that Atos would be contacting her and she had permission to release details. Then he had to talk to the DWP nurse again. 

Basically, he was on the phone all morning trying to sort a mistake Atos made. Not only that, but he asked if they had an email address because we've received several assessments on my mental health since I completed my initial application and we were more than willing to forward that information. He was told no, they only had a phone line...

Basically, we can't pass the information we have on.

We could have given them extra documentation the same day, instead, they couldn't get anything because it'll take time to get the Crisis Team and my GP to release the same information. It's madness...

(This is madness...
Madness? This is SPARTA!!!!!!
... sorry, I'm a bit of a nerd.)

The thing is, that in this version of '300', Atos are Leonidas and I'm Xerxes messenger. They're madness is pushing me into a black pit, and I could die down there. I don't know what's happening now. I have no idea if I'll get PIP. If they'll rearrange a meeting. Or if they'll cancel my application and I'll have to start over. My statutory sick pay is ending and I'm going to have nothing. I'll need to apply for ESA too, probably, in the coming months, but the PIP process has terrified me. I just don't know if we'll have the money to pay the mortgage and bills, to buy food, never mind give our children Christmas presents. And it's all just so unnecessary.

On top of that, there's an issue of trust. The DWP nurse phoned the Crisis Team to ask for information. Even after they said they couldn't hand that out, she continued to ask them if I was alright. The Crisis Team told my husband to be careful of her, that she'd raised they're suspicions.

Are Atos and DWP trying to sort my claim, or are they trying to protect themselves because they've caused me, someone with a mental illness and suicidal tendencies, excessive distress? I don't know the answer to that. Right now I don't have answers to much, and that's having a negative impact on me.

Continued in next post...

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

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

Panic Inducing PIP

I have my Personal Independence Payment assessment tomorrow, but the very thought of it is dread inducing. My throat feels as though its closing, trying to cut off my ability to breath or swallow. My mouth is dry. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it. I feel sick. There is such a knot of tension in my back that my shoulder blades feel as though they're being pulled together and my neck muscles are burning. I want to cry.

But it's worse than that. I want to die. I don't was to see a person whose purpose is judging me. I don't want to say the wrong thing when getting through the assessment is essential. I'm wondering about running away. I could steal my husbands car keys. I could disappear. I could die.

Part of me wants to cut. It might calm me. Another part of me is scared that dragging a blade up an artery might be just too tempting today. I want to crawl out of my skin or tear it from my bones. I want this to end . Advisors tell people with physical disabilities not to do anything they'll find too painful... yet with a mental problem I'm supposed to endure. Do what they ask even though my anxiety is heading of the charts and I'm one palpitation away from phoning the Crisis team.

I need out of this. But I can't just cancel because I need PIP. What alternative is there?

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

The Things That Drag You Under

I've been having a bad week, as will be evident from my recent posts, but yesterday decided it had it in for me in a way the weekend hadn't. The result was more cuts on my leg. Then, as I'm running out of space on my calf, some on my arm as well. I only stopped taking a blade to my own skin and using the sting to soothe as it was time for my kids to come home from school. I won't cut while they're around. Self-harm is an addiction. I'm reliant on it but protecting my children and giving them a normal childhood is more important than watching my own blood well as a distraction technique.

Anyway, back to the point... Yesterday had it in for me. It started with a phone call, which I didn't answer because I was in with only my three year old and my husband wasn't available to answer instead. Anxiety affects every aspect of how I interact with others.

I managed to persuade myself to listen to the voice message which was left for me and discovered the caller had been HR from work. It was the message I've been dreading... "We need to have a meeting about your return to work and whether you will be returning. It's just, from a business perspective, you're the only one in your role... and your sick pay is about to end..."

My heart sunk because when my sick leave started, I intended to go back. I was on waiting lists for help. I thought I would have moved forward by now even if I wasn't fully recovered. However, six months later, I'm still waiting. I'm not better. Not at all. In fact, I've sunk further and I feel like I'm drowning. Right now, I don't have professional support. My medication needs a psychiatrist's review as it's not working but there are no psychiatrists available. There is nothing more I could have done to help myself because the support and guidance just isn't there...

So I can't go back to work. My statutory sick pay is ending. I'm going to lose my job because as it stands, even thinking about going to work panics me. It makes me want to die rather than facing either trying the impossible out of duty to my children - go back to earn money, knowing I'll be back on the commute that gave me an opportunity to run away and end everything - or face the meeting that will end my employment. Being made redundant in the past was horrific, but losing a job not because of a global recession but because I'm not mentally strong enough to work? Because I've failed at life? That's enough to push me off the ledge I'm trying to cling to.

When I managed to call back, I was asked to attend an occupational health meeting, which I'd have to go to at an as of yet undisclosed location. I can't even go to my PIP assessment. My assessor is having to come to my house. When I said I couldn't do that, the HR person decided she and my boss would have to come out to my house that week. The very thought made me queasy. I don't want to have to people bearing bad news to come to my safe place. I don't want to hear them judge that from a business perspective, I'm not good enough to keep. I don't want to have my failure held up for me to see.

If I'd had a physical illness I would have been treated by now. If I had a physical disability, I might have been able to advise work on how to make my job manageable to return to. But my problem is something work can't help with - I can't leave the house - and treatment hasn't been effectively put in place yet. I'm in an impossible situation. I tied to get help before I ended up on sick leave, and while waiting for that help I'm going to lose my job. I'm going to lose my family's income. We're going to lose the money we need to survive. The stress will mount up, and I'll get even worse. But when you're already rock bottom, where is there to go?

I still need to get back to HR to arrange the dreaded meeting, especially not this week when the thought of Friday's PIP assessment is looming over me, dread inducing, like a hurdle I need to cross to survive, but a hurdle that seems specifically built to ensure failure. Dealing with both DWP judgment and work's judgment in one week is too much for me to consider.

Anyway, having had that phone call, a letter then dropped onto the door mat of what was my late father's house but is now mine. It was a final notice for a gas bill from a company we've never heard off. When we got the keys to the house, we arranged for another company to supply our gas but apparently that didn't happen immediately and now dad's original company wants money we weren't expecting to pay out. Worse, because it's a final notice the company are threatening us with debt collectors if we don't pay in five days. The problem is, we've never had a bill. We've never had a first notice. And now we're getting final demands. That's enough to send me into another panic. It's enough to make me feel sick. It's enough to make me want to shut down. Go numb. Give up.

I couldn't phone the gas company because of my anxiety. My husband will have to deal with the issue as that letter was enough to have me sobbing without actually having to speak to a stranger.

A demand for money I don't have, especially after a phone call about my job, sent my heart sinking. It sent my mind whirling and triggered thoughts of suicide. Normal people would cope. They'd sort the problems. But me? I'm useless and my mind insists that being dead would be better, easier, exactly what I deserve. Dead removes the need to find solutions to problems I can't resolve.

That wasn't even that last  the day had to throw at me. The final punch might seem small to other, but to me it was the straw that broke the camels back. Half an hour after receiving the gas final demand, I discovered something I'd ordered for Christmas for my kids had been cancelled by the seller. It seemed that the seller had cancelled so they could double the price meaning I can't afford my order any more.

Why is that affecting me so deeply (apart from my depression)...? My kids are going to have a very budget Christmas as we can't afford anything so this is a real blow. We're making them toys out of things we already have in the house because we can't afford to buy toys, that's how bad it's gotten. The cancellation was enough of a blow that, on top of the letter and phone call, there was only one way to calm myself; a razor blade.

Later I also tried smoking weed. I've never done drugs, not even in my youth, and as it happened my asthma meant I couldn't really smoke without choking. I don't agree with recreational drugs but I just need an out because the prescribed drugs aren't helping me. Tonight I plan on seeking help in a vodka bottle. I know that's bad too. I know it's not the answer, but neither was pleading for help from the doctor, from the hospital, from a counsellor, or from the Community Mental Health team.

I don't know how many cuts I've given myself in three days, but it's enough to reveal I'm going to have a bad week. Other people might be able to cope with simple problems such as a bill and Christmas presents. I can't, and on Friday I need to prove that. I need to prove it to PIP and then I'll have to apply for ESA and do it all over again. I need to prove that I can't do what I'm failing to do and the stress of having to prove it is making it harder to do anything at all. It's a destructive cycle.

What is the point?

I feel like I'm drowning, that I'm being dragged under, or pushed under, and that things can only get worse. But how can I explain that in a way that sounds like an illness rather than melodrama? I know it's an illness I have, while still telling myself I should get over it because so many people have told me that in the past, and I don't know how to put the sinking sensation I feel into words.

Maybe I should just open my mouth, let the water in, drown. Then, at least, people might look at my cold corpse and think 'oh, she did need help'. Maybe then it would become believable. It seems like the best course of action to both earn understanding/empathy and end my relentless fear and hopelessness.

If I'm denied PIP and ESA, I know there'll be no option but suicide. I can't go through it again, the struggle just to feed my children and pay the bills. If I'm denied the help I need until I manage to access treatment and gain some stability, then things will come unbearably difficult. I'm not saying that for attention or to help my case. There'd be no point as I use a pseudonym on this blog. I'm saying it because I know what happens when this kind of thing happens. I know what's going on in my head.  I know how my mind has tormented me with the words 'just end it' for sixteen years.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx