Gah! O_O

[mousme]

Came home with the intention of relaxing and doing some Reparo-type stuff, and instead spent better part of the evening talking a girl from BUS down from crisis.

I'm so not trained for crisis intervention, it's not even funny. I was quietly moderating the board along with Joyce, another moderator, when we both simultaneously came across a long series of posts by a poster named Cath.




Posted: 06 Jan 2003 20:21    Post subject: ramblings about cbt t
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it's my fault.
no matter which way you look at it it's my fault.

he gave me the tape of another girls session. the whole session. she said things on the tape which were upsetting. and they wanted me to do therapy with this guy - to do graded exposure exercises with him, to trust him, to put my whole effort into it. and i did read the booklets, i did read them, and i punished myself for failing in the summer. i did. i cancelled it out. i'm sorry that i couldn't trust the man who gave me the tape and then sat there asking me over and over 'why do you think i gave you the tape?' - why did he keep asking me ? why? what kick was he trying to achieve? was it his way of showing how he has power over me? was it?

i'm sorry i keep shouting when i'm asleep and then wake up not knowing what i said or why it happens - could it be a side effect of stopping the med? i'm frightened, as i hear people. they come into my room and stand there listening to me breathing.

Posted: 06 Jan 2003 13:41    Post subject: helpline is useless
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what is the point of having an out of hours telephone number if nobody picks up the sodding phone????????
just what is the point?
i just have to hang on tight till i see counsellor tomorrow.
just hang on. don't let it happen just yet. even though i feel that there are no options left, there have to be some somewhere. just hang on a little bit till i can talk to counsellor. she might help. but she might not help. i feel that i waste her time. and if i' m not at uni i fear she 'll say i can't see her.






Posted: 06 Jan 2003 18:16    Post subject: ****GRAPHIC SI/MAJOR SU SPOILER**** couldn't wait
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*******GRAPHIC SI/MAJOR SU SPOILER**********
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I cut my wrist. Couldn't wait until tomorrow. No self control. Dark red blood everywhere. Fell on carpet. Different blood from when I cut higher up my arm - higher up and it's just blobs, but wrist it falls in rain drops.

Would it be okay if I went over and over in the same spot just to end it now? Would that be okay with the cbt therapist? Would that be okay to just go that bit deeper into my wrist to say fuck this and just leave? The next time someone isn't here, would it be okay to cut again to see the dark red blood fall? Or when everyone is asleep soundly, would it be okay to cut nearer my hand to expose the blue things so that we can meet and just sit with the blood?

I doubt it would be okay. And after all that si is a choice isn't it? A choice. That man had a choice. He had a choice didn't he? Only he didn't choose too well either. I'm angry. Very angry. I need to bleed to make this alright as I couldn't do anything then and now I can. I can bleed to death. Then everyone will be happy. Then I won't have to worry about travelling or studying or homes or arguments or food or pensions or people. It'd be okay then wouldn't it?


Posted: 06 Jan 2003 12:07    Post subject: A letter I want to send ** SI & SU - Graphic in places**
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A letter that I want to send but don't have the guts to send to my community mental health team. They'd know it was me if i sent it. There's no hope left.

**MAJOR SI/SU Triggers**
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Dear cmht,

I’m very angry with you. VERY angry with you.
I want you to hurt as much as I hurt inside.
I want you to feel my pain.
I want you to go to hell the next time you try and put me on medication.
I want you to not break promises.
I want you to fucking go away.
I wanted your help.
I went to you for help.
But you didn’t help me.
I’m so alone.
You cannot know the extent to which I feel alone.
This has been going on for too long.
I’m tired of it all.
I’m worn out by the process, by your consent questions into the state of my mental health. The time will come when I quit going to your appointments and you will no longer be able to hurt me.

You said I was making things up.
Well, the scars don’t say that, they say my pain is valid.
I’m very angry with you.
You’re supposed to help people and instead you made me do it.
I went to you for help and you haven’t helped me so please don’t ask “do you think we’ve helped you” because you haven’t helped.
I’m trapped physically and mentally now.
Don’t ask if I want my parents at a meeting because I don’t want them there. So quit asking me. I’m an adult, not a child. They aren’t my real parents anyway. So stop asking.

Every single fucking time I go to you, you don’t help, you make my life worse. And if you say ‘take responsibility’ I’ll say, when do you ever take responsibility for what you did?? Go on, when did you take it?? Did you take it when you asked ‘why do you think I gave it to you’? Did you apologise? No. You fucking didn’t.

I hate you for what you’ve done. I really hate you – just as much as you hate me. I know you hate me. You’ve told me. You’ve shown that you don’t trust me. Well I don’t fucking trust you either. Not now. I still hear you saying “don’t worry, everything you say is private and confidential” - I can still hear you saying it – you don’t know, but I still hear you. You shouldn’t be allowed to help people as you don’t help them – you just hurt them. I want you to hurt real bad. I want you to feel the amount of pain I feel when I put it in the bowl. I want you to feel it.

It’s not easy. My life is over. You said you would help. You didn’t fucking help. We tried to work it out and we failed. I hate you so fucking god damn much. I really hate you. You barely acknowledged my existence in the corridor – bastard.

I’m isolated. She said we would make another plan if I stopped doing it. Where’s the plan then??? No plan. No life. You realise that I have to kill myself now, don’t you? You realise that I’ve had enough of your bullshit. That the time to kill me, has come as I’ve had it up to here with you and your tablets. You keep hurting me. I’ve had enough. You’re ruined my life. I’m so fucking angry with you. What do you expect from me? I don’t want to receive anymore of your letters – so don’t send them requesting that I go here and there.
**** SI & SU spoiler – Graphic in places****
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You lost the piece of paper – bastard. You lost it after you asked me to write it . I want you to feel my pain. But you won’t. You can’t. God damn it. I want you to feel what it feels like to drag a razor blade across your skin and to see the gap opening up with fat cells showing beneath it – I want you to feel what if feels like to put it in the bowl and to hold it under there for a few minutes. I want you to feel the shock and shame. I want you to feel the white scars with your fingers. I want you to know what it’s like to have to go to extremes as there’s no life control – I want you to feel how out of control I feel. I want to you fucking feel it. But you won’t as you wouldn’t do anything like that would you? No. Because you’re sane and I’m the mad one. There’s nothing wrong with self-injury. It’s a coping mechanism. It keeps me alive which is a hell of a lot more than you are able to do with your so called ‘therapy’.

I want you to get the stitches instead of me. I want you to see them putting them in. I want you to feel dizzy afterwards in the supermarket due to the fact that because I did it to myself no one tells me what to expect after having local anaesthetic. I want to you take the journey instead of me.

I want you to cut down to the blue thing showing in my wrist – needing to cut through it, but I don’t. I just look at it. I want you to cut through it, and to **** me. I need you to **** me before I **** you or me or anyone else. There are no options there is no hope there is no life.

I want you to feel her hitting me. I want you to feel the shame of standing there naked with her shouting at me. I want you to feel my confusion. I want you to hear them shouting and threatening. I want you to hear and feel the world as I see and hear it.

I want you to stop writing notes and actually READ the god damn letters from my GP so that I don’t have to explain what they say to her. But you didn’t read them did you? You left it. I still do it. No one knows but I do.

Has it ever occurred to you that you do more harm than good?

I am so angry and frustrated with you – very angry. Extremely angry with you.

I want you to see her hitting her by the front door. I want you to see her on the floor in pain. I want you to see her asking me if what he did was ok in the garden. I want you to hurt as much as I do. Expressed emotion my ass. I want you to feel her hitting me in the chest.

I want you to turn the cd player on in the summer and to boil it and then pour it straight on to my wrist. I want you to jump back in pain. I want you to feel sick when I realise what I’ve done. I want you to go to the cemetery and to look at the graves envious that I’m not with them.

I want you to scream out in pain and frustration. I want you to hurt more than I hurt as I’m so fucking angry with you.

I want you to experience depression – to really experience it. Not to treat it, as you’re crap at that but to experience it. To stand there in the bathroom, in the dark, doubled up in emotional pain.

I want you to not know what the date is or who you are. I want you to see them move and talking to me. I want you to see the hammer flying up and down on my legs. I want you to feel the bruises. I want you to wince in pain when I accidentally knock something against them.

But you don’t give a toss do you? You couldn’t care less. You can go to hell with your white painted rooms and telephones and out of hours numbers. I don’t want to see my counsellor anymore. I feel like I’m wasting her time. I know I’m wasting her time. I know I’m not worth her time and efforts. I need to die. I need to be dead. Dead.

I want you to feel the cold and the heat in long sleeved garments. Where do I hide now? I want you to be me so that I can give up now. I want to take the rest of my anti-depressants right now. I want to take the whole damn lot. You asked if I was suicidal. I said no. But I am. But I can’t trust you enough to be able to tell you. So I’m writing it here instead.

Lets pretend that you’re me, what do you do now, after writing this letter: do you go cut yourself again for the second time today or do you read or do you go eat something – as I’ve told you before, I can’t eat, they won’t let me eat but you didn’t listen. They watch me and then hit me if I eat, so I can’t eat lunch. It’s 16:19. Can’t you see there is no life left? Nothing left. Just emptiness. Just this overwhelming sadness at how things are. I know you know who I am as you gave me the wrong thing didn’t you? But I still have it. I still have it you fucking bastard.

I don’t want to cut myself but you give me no other options. I’ll cut through the blue thing one day – and I’ll lie down and die. Dead. Cold stone dead. But you won’t know until afterwards. No amount of talking about it will stop me from cutting through it. I need to cut through it. I need to kill myself as you have given me no hope. You’ve taken my life already. You said you would help me. But you haven’t helped me. I want you dead too so that you can feel my pain once and for all.

Yours sincerely,

A dissatisfied service user.
6th January 2003.


So here I am with Joyce trying to make sure that Cath doesn't actually commit suicide during the night. Seven hours until her appointment with her student counsellor, and we seem to have made some headway. She went to bed a few minutes ago, and promised us she would wait and talk to the counsellor.

I'm glad that she's all right for now, but every time something like this happens it just breaks my heart even more. I live a whole freaking ocean away, and all I want to do is take that frightened little girl in my arms and and stroke her hair and tell her it's okay, that one of those psychiatrists *will* take her seriously when she says she's afraid people are poisoning her food and that the jars of peanuts in her house talk to her. I want her to believe that someone out there will believe her when she says she's being abused and help her. Even if she's lying (and I don't think she is) it *still* means she needs help! I don't understand why the mental health professionals who are treating her don't get it.

I'm tired now.

Comments

[ex-chasingth759.livejournal.com]

you did a good job.