Not All Killing Blows Are Physical

A few years ago something positive happened. My fiction writing drew some fans who became friends. Many of us suffered invisible or mental illnesses and we became close, supporting each other. Over two years wevcame to trust eachother. We thought we were good friends. However, there was one in our midst who became increasingly manipulative. She needed more attention than she was willing to give and had a severe victim complex.

It caused a lot of arguments. There were even times when this person told one of us to 'do it' when discussing suicide. She told the same person to 'get over' her anxiety as if it was that easy. What is particularly horrifying about this, is this woman has depression and anxiety herself. Not as severely as the rest of us, but enough that she should understand.

Anyway, back on track. This manipulative person acted like she cared until she was well enough acquainted to ask for favours, then her interest in our health and safety decreased. She had a habit of causing hurt and triggering our depression and anxiety, and when we pulled her up on it she played victim. Often she persuaded us we were to blame. She succeeded because the nature of our illnesses meant we blamed ourselves for almost everything anyway. Feeling guilt was second nature. I guess we were easy targets.

Easy or not, eventually we had enough. Several of us called her out. She did the usual, played victim and accused us (me especially) of bullying her. Maybe she targeted me because I'm more direct. I was bullied so badly as a child that I will stand up against the harassment of my friends, but the very act of standing up painted a target on my back. I don't know. What I do know is that she didn't like having several people tell her to stop bullying the youngest member of our friendship group and she started to air her dirty laundry on Facebook. That's when her husband got involved.

Now her husband is also manipulative; he emotionally abused his wife and we'd supported her through it. Yet right then he seemed determined to tear into us. He new all of our triggers, things we'd told his wife, and he used them against us in the most horrific way.

He told three people who self harm to kill themselves, and not to be pussys over the method even though two of us had already attempted suicide in the last six months.

He told us we wouldn't be missed, even though he knows we all have severely distorted self image and non-existent self-worth.

He also said some things that were just sick.
I'd once needed therapy because when I had my daughter I was so worried about someone getting in and hurting her that I had to check her every ten minutes and didn't sleep. This husband of an ex-fruend reversed that treatment by describing capturing me and slowly cutting the heads of my entire family in front of me. The image of him decapitating my children, my reasons to live, is stuck in my head. He has purposefully cause further psychological harm to someone with a mental disability.

In what world is that appropriate?

All three of us, the victims of his harassment, started talking about dying. I needed my husband to phone my crisis team. Another woman, a teen, needed to seek her mam's help to prevent a suicide, another now sees herself as completely worthless even though she's important to so many people. And Facebook's response to links and screenshots of the abuse... ? To do nothing without further evidence. What further evidence could I possibly send that I hadn't already?

To show exactly why this episode is so horrifying I'll include images of the anonymised abuse and the Facebook report messages. Please note this could be triggering. Also, I had to go through the reporting system a convoluted way because eveytime I tried to follow the instructions aimed at the app, the app either wouldn't do it or wouldn't allow me to add a comment. I apologise for my spelling in the reports to Facebook too, I was struggling to breath, shaking, and trying to silence my whirring anxious mind while writing.

This is not ok behaviour. I'm horrified. I'm anxious. I'm scared. Is this really behaviour Facebook will allow? Is it really behaviour society will allow?

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

You're Worse Than Severely Depressed

Continued from 'Hitting Crisis Point' and my PIP post...

Sorry it's taken a while to post this. I wrote it but was too drained to draw an image for it. The weekend was so exhausting I still don't feel up to drawing about it, so I'm just gonna post and I might add drawings later.

By midday we'd spent hours with the Crisis Team and even longer on the phone with Atos and DWP staff. I was exhausted and disconnected, and my husband was running out of energy too. Yet he had more to do. As we still hadn't been able to contact my boss, he phoned again, although my boss didn't ring back until later in the afternoon. They had a chat about my condition and we thought nothing more about it. We didn't dwell because we were still waiting for the psychiatrist who'd added me to his list of home visits.

It was after working hours when the psychiatrist arrived and I'm not going to go through everything we discussed because I've been through the same discussion so many times since 3am on Friday morning. However, he discussed my history and what was happening at present. He scored me. He inhaled, lifted his head and said "You're more than severely depressed."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Finally, someone had said what I'd been trying to get people to believe for months and months. I also have an Avoidant Personality, apparently, although I'm not sure about that. It's something that needs looked into. I've looked up both Avoidant Personality Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder, and while I do have a number of Avoidant traits, I'd say I had far more Boderline traits, but I'll discuss that another day. Either way, I was believed. Someone looked at me and confirmed I was right. Despite often feeling I'm not bad enough for help, I am "more than severely depressed".

The psychiatrist left me on Sertraline for depression but he added Diazepam for anxiety, that will be a temporary thing until a treatment plan comes into affect, but hopefully it'll help. He also prescribed Zopiclone to help me sleep. What a cocktail of drugs for someone who avoided antidepressants for sixteen years. But I'm not fighting it anymore. My condition has long since become a disability and I need to accept any help there is.

That was Friday night. The doctor also arranged for a nurse to come out and see me today, Saturday (I might post this in a few days, but trust me, as I write it's Saturday). The nurse cane in the morning, he was lovely, reconfirmed a few things about the Crisis Team and told me I'd get copies of my assessments and treatment plan which I could then show anyone who needed to see evidence of my condition. I was in an ok mood then. Not like a normal person, but for me. The Zopiclone and finally getting help had allowed me a better nights sleep and even though I still felt a bit disconnected, I was alright. When he left, I retained a little of the previous night's relief.

Then the post woman knocked on my door and hubby had to sign for a letter... from work. Human Resources are not happy that I didn't phone them on Thursday. They've arranged a meeting at work for November 3rd despite knowing I can't attend meetings. They've said I can take another employee in with me... a colleague I haven't seen since March, despite knowing all communication really needs to go through my husband because I can't cope. They haven't asked if there was a reason I hadn't phoned. They didn't try phoning me before sending the letter. What they fail to appreciate is that I was not well enough to phone them on Thursday, although my husband had tried to contact my boss. I was heading towards crisis point and as much as they have concerns about the impact of my illness on the business, my priority has to be surviving another day.

The letter talked about occupational health meetings, about being obstructive, about termination of my employment on grounds of ill health. I have a disability. What they're asking of me I can't provide. I can't attend those meetings any more than a paraplegic can walk up the stairs. I'm trying to get better. I'm seeking help, but I can't tell them when I'll be better. The Department of Work and Pensions defines a disability as 'a physical or mental impairment that has a substantial and long term effect upon your ability to do normal daily activities'. My depression and anxiety is a disability, and at the moment it seems I'm going to me dismissed for that, because at present work are asking me to do things I just can't do and not giving me the time I need to complete my treatment.

I understand it's a difficult one for work. I'm the only person in my role and they can't wait forever. At the same time, I have a disability which I am actively trying to recover from enough to function. I'm not pulling a sicky so I can go to the cinema and see friends every day rather than working. I'm on sick leave because the idea of getting in a car and going among other people makes me want to end my life. I hate myself so much and these letters are adding to that. If someone walked up to a person in a wheel chair and tipped them out, the word would have a problem, yet it's somehow acceptable to send accusatory and stress inducing correspondence directly to someone with mental health issues even though you've been told she can't communicate well at the moment and you should contact her husband. What double standards is that?

What people continually fail to appreciate is that those letters, have. Consider the following phrases: 'assessment', 'capability meeting', 'you did not contact me as requested', 'in light of your refusal', 'medical capability', 'little likelihood of return within a reasonable timescale', 'notice of termination of your employment', 'if there is any relevant information which you believe we ought to consider, then it is in your own interests to make it available to us for the meeting', 'confirm that you are able to attend no less than 72 hours prior to the meeting to facilitate travel arrangements', 'obstructive', 'failure to respond', 'impact of your absence on our organisation or resources', 'I trust you understand the reasons behind this letter, as we do have sympathy with your situation and I have no wish to worry you at this difficult time. However, we do need to consider the operational needs of the organisation and consider what decisions need to be made.'

Those words cause anxiety, feelings of failure, depression, self loathing... they push me when pushing could cause my death. I know I'm blunt about that, but it's where I am these days. I can be blunt about suicide because thoughts of it are my daily companion and one trigger could see me back at crisis point or dead. You can't assess a paraplegic on their failure to walk, so why is it ok to assess someone with mental health issues on their 'failure to respond' especially when you've been neglecting to try her mobile or hold conversations with her husband? It's discriminatory, but because I have an invisible, mental illness, it's accepted.

Telling me I failed to respond is a bit like telling a one armed man he failed to clap his hands. Only in this case it's worse because I didn't ever receive the letters they wanted me to respond to (or, incidentally, any payslips or tax documents) since March and they didn't try ringing my mobile, a number they've had for the duration of my employment, until last week. A number that is answered when it is called, by my husband if not by me.

I'm not being obstructive, not anymore than a man with a zimmerframe is obstructive because he's blocking the corridor walking slower than able bodied people have patience for.

It's not that I'm refusing further assessments. That implies a choice. It's that I can't face further assessments, not when I'm already barely coping with seeing my GP, the Community Mental Health Team, the Crisis Team, PIP... I just can't do it. Does a blind woman refuse to see? No, she just can't do it.

As for returning within a reasonable timescale, what is reasonable? Before or after I stop feeling like driving my company car off a cliff during my daily commute? Before or after walking in front of a reversing truck on a building site seems like a good idea? Before of after I recover my ability to answer a phone call? Who assesses what a reasonable timescale for recovery from a disability is?

As for providing evidence as it's in my own interests, how threatening does that sound? They've had my sick notes. When my sick notes failed to be delivered, HR phoned and my husband emailed copies of them to the relevant person. My doctor knows I'm not fit to work, what evidence could an HR Business Partner and Business Manager interpret better than my doctor?

They want me to confirm attendance with more than 72 hours to spare so that they can arrange travel. They, the people who can manage to drive or use public transport. I don't know if I'm going to be fit for a meeting 72 hours in advance. I could agree and then be floored by a panic attack on the day (likely) or disagree because I'm having a bad day them be ok 72 hours later (even though that's less likely). Once again, they're asking me to do something my disability prevents me from doing. All I can do is say I can't attend. And then no doubt they'll say I've 'failed' to do what's necessary. That I 'refuse' as though it's a choice. Or that I'm being 'obstructive'. All verbs and adjectives that would be deemed discriminatory if used to describe the impairments of physically disabled people.

But I guess that it's ok to discriminate against those who can't attend meetings. Who can't say, go and see a solicitor to discuss the possibility of legal action. It's easy to discriminate against people whose disability is mental because they're less likely to have the ability to fight. But that isn't solely a problem within business, its a problem within society and the government. People don't understand mental illness. There's still so much stigma attached to it... We're unusual so people fear us. We're vulnerable, so people discriminate. That's something we have to deal with alongside our conditions.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

If We Talked About Physical Disability Like We Do About Mental Disability...

My aim is to do a comic strip every now and again. Something not as personal as my drawings but a more general commentary on life with a mental illness. Here's the first, Zombies Are Human Too, Vol 001.

Pseudonymous Zombie

xxx

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