I started out having a nice day today. I went to work and got quite a few things accomplished. I took some initiative and that made me feel even better. Tonight, I went to reflexology therapy. It was incredibly relaxing. Afterward, my husband and I went to dinner where we enjoyed a few yummy drinks and some absolutely delicious food. After that it went down hill.
At the train station on the way home, my husband pulled out a cigarette he’d rolled and asked me if he could smoke it. It hurt me so much to know that he wanted to smoke (meaning he was feeling down) after we’d had such a nice evening together. Tuesday night he asked me where the paracetamol & codeine pills were because he had a tooth ache. I can’t lie to him so I told him I’d taken them all over the course of 2 days because of the stress and being so upset about him smoking. So even knowing all that and being so upset and concerned a few nights ago, he still wanted to smoke! I wanted to snatch it out of his hand and throw it out onto the tracks. Instead we fought (not loudly). He broke it into pieces and tossed it away in anger. We made up on the train. Then he said he still wanted to roll up another one and smoke later tonight. WHAT THE FUCK?! He made me pinky swear not to take that much codeine again and asked if he needed to hide all the medication in the house. If he was really that concerned for me, he wouldn’t do the thing that’s set me off twice now. I’m not blaming him for my actions. My actions were my deliberate choice. But my actions were a reaction to his. So you’d think he wouldn’t do it again, right? Guess not. Still he is trying to support me in most ways and he is my rock.
It’s more support than I’m getting anywhere else. Even my mother-in-law and my own parents are useless in supporting me emotionally. They mean well. They love me and don’t want to see me hurting. But saying, “You mustn’t let it get you down. Keep your chin up,” doesn’t help a god damn thing! In fact it makes me feel worse because it makes me feel like it’s my fault I feel this way. It’s not like I woke up one day and thought, “You know what? I want to feel like the deepest pile of shit in the universe. I think I’ll purposely let things get to me and will make sure to definitely not keep my chin up.”
Another thing that’s really bothering me is that I was trying to share my good evening with my dad tonight, so I took a few pics of our wonderful food and my margarita (he likes margaritas as much as I do). He texted me back and said he was in the doctor’s office and would look at them later. Okay, I understand that. I asked him about half an hour ago (5 hours after the pics were sent) if he’d looked at them yet. He said, “Not yet. I was tired when I got home from the doctor’s so I took a nap.” How long does it take to look at a few pictures your daughter sent you of her nice evening so you could share in her excitement? Apparently too long… that’s time that could be spent napping. This happens frequently. I send them texts or pictures or try to call them on Skype (as they’re in a different country & I miss them) and they’re taking a nap & don’t look at what I’ve sent them or don’t answer the Skype call. It hurts. I want to be able to share my good times with them. They don’t happen every day. It’d be nice to know they were happy for me and interested in what I’m doing and how I’m doing.
So I guess I’ll go cry myself to sleep since I don’t have any codeine and I promised my husband not to take that much again anyway. Yay! What a great fucking day!
I’ve heard good things about coping with depression through blogging. Problem is, I work in the mental health industry. I help other people cope with their depression and encourage them to talk about it and ask for help, but when it comes to my own depression, I’m afraid to take my own advice. It just feels wrong. I work in mental health. I know lots of facts. I help other people. I shouldn’t suffer from it myself. I’m desperate, though. I’ve got to do something. So I’ll try keeping this blog & hope to goodness it stays anonymous.
Last night I thought very seriously about overdosing. I did all the research online to make sure I’d just end up in the emergency room and not actually die. I also pulled up a few tabs with crisis line numbers. I thought about calling one, but didn’t want to because I hadn’t taken a shower in 2 days so my hair was greasy. I ended up calling my husband and he came home to be with me. I cried a lot. I slept. I missed work today. I feel guilty because I LOVE my job. I just couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed.
I’m still thinking about doing something drastic. I don’t want to die. I just want help. Serious help. The NHS has been absolutely useless in helping me, though. And the NHS is my only choice. We hardly have money to eat. We certainly can’t afford private treatment.
A few months ago I went to the doctor and told her I was thinking about jumping in front of a car. I assured her I didn’t want to die and would never actually do it, but the thoughts and strong desire were there. She referred me to counseling. I also asked her to change my medication because I’d been on it for several years and felt it wasn’t working any more. After about 4 different visits… with her telling me to just keep trying to stay on my medication, she finally agreed to change my meds. I don’t know if they’ve stopped working already or if I’m just lower than my medication can cope with. I went to counseling once.
My experience with the NHS counseling service was absolute shit. After a phone consultation with someone clearly in a call centre (and there’s no way they had any psych. qualifications), I was told I needed Cognitive-Behavioural Therapy (CBT). On countless occasions, we got letters saying they’d tried to call us but couldn’t reach us. We never got any phone calls. I even called twice and made sure they had the right phone numbers for us and that they had all of our phone numbers so they had 3 different numbers to get in touch with us. We still have never received a call. After waiting about 3 months, one of the letters confirmed my appointment. I went. It cost £8 taxi each way to get there because it was in such an inaccessible location for us. We don’t have a car, so we’re reliant on public transportation. When I got there, they said, “Oh we tried to call you. The appointment is cancelled.” I went home having wasted £16 and no closer to getting help. They sent me a letter a few days later giving me a new appointment (still saying they couldn’t reach me by phone). I was prepared to go, but the day of my appointment I got another letter (AGAIN saying they couldn’t reach me by phone) saying that my appointment had to be rescheduled again. A few weeks later, I got another letter (you know the whole “we couldn’t reach you by phone” shit by now) with my new new appointment. I went. £16 spent. The counselor gave me crisis line numbers. We talked a little. I didn’t like her. She didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about me. I didn’t go again.
Now I’m here… quickly approaching rock bottom… still trying to resist overdosing… still trying to resist starting to self-harm again. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to get the help I need. I don’t want to die. I just want help, but it looks like in order to get the help I need, I’ll have to do something drastic.