#mentalhalthawareness

[xdaisychainxxx]

Med check

[washington-psychwellness]

[shewhoisnotalice-blog]

Who likes a dodo??

She isn’t a bad egg, this new psychoanalytic therapist. She doesn’t speak to me as if I only have half a brain and she doesn’t avoid answering questions by asking questions about the questions, (which seems be the standard procedure in sessions) which saves a lot of otherwise wasted time. I’ve now seen her three times and she appears to sympathise with the predicament that I’m currently in; a predicament that I’m sure those of you who have received treatment by the NHS will be able to empathise with.

I want to say at this point that I am not ungrateful for the NHS. I acknowledge that as an institute propelled into existence as a result of the masses of the nation being unable to afford medical attention, it is something that Britain should be proud of. I realise that in some departments the free service is life saving and that being born into a society whereby you do not have to worry about crippling debt if an accident occurs, it is something every citizen should be grateful for. What I have a problem with is the funding cuts and the consequences to patients. Whilst taxes go up, so indeed should quality of primary care. This however, does not seem to be the case for mental health services in England. I cannot blame one single person for this, but only be another to suffer the repercussions and document them in hope that one day someone with the needed amount of influence might be able to address the situation. So as I write my frustrations and refer to the NHS in a negative way, I would ask you to note that I am referring directly to my experience of the current mental health services, to take my overall judgement of the institution into account, and to try not to think me a selfish ungrateful bitch.

Now I’m going to let you in on the predicament I’m facing. Whilst I write I’d like you to imagine the chapter in the Lewis Caroll novel where Alice first encounters the dodo and other characters running in a circle, having been washed ashore to the scene by her own tears.

At the end of last year I started seeing a lady who specialised in Dialectical Behavioural Therapy (DBT) because it was thought the best suited therapy for my condition. My condition is BPD. According to research, DBT has the highest success rate of any therapy for people with my illness. Perfect! Although extremely wary (and admittedly a little difficult) to begin with (after talking to so many people who treat you like an untrainable dog, you begin to wonder why you have to tell yet another person your ‘sad story’ and re-traumatise yourself) I grew attached to this woman because we had a very good working relationship. The way she explained things to me made sense. The step by step measures to overcome overwhelming feelings of (what I now understand to be) justifiable vs unjustifiable guilt were transferable to every day situations, and therefore very helpful. As a person she was witty, funny, honest, direct and gave off a perfect balance of sympathy and non-indulgence. In short, we got on. I respected her; she respected me - and not as another patient but as an intellectual individual human being. In January of this year she gave me an option: if I wanted to start the group part of DBT sooner, then I could transfer borough and begin the course with someone else. Alternatively, I could continue to work with her on a one-to-one basis until the group work had space for me with her in August. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been through the mill a bit with therapists; I also recognised how good a rapport we had. So I decided it was worth waiting a little longer (after 7 years) to stay with this lady. I turned down the offer to do DBT elsewhere.

So of course, like all good things…three weeks before I was due to start the DBT with her and the group she told me she was leaving. She’d found another position closer to her family on the other side of London. Not only that, the team that I was under would therefore no longer provide DBT at all.

I raged. I cried. I felt abandoned and betrayed and horribly alone. I couldn’t blame her for her reasoning, but after the decision I’d previously made and the situation I’d now have to deal with, I became suicidal. 16 therapists (and all the other crap with it) were my limit. I was so close…and now, once again, I’d have to be put on another waiting list before I could see someone else, who might not even be trained in the therapy I need.

Enter the Dodo: ‘You will need to attend an initial meeting with a psychoanalytic therapist, because as you know, we no longer provide DBT.’ This felt like a step sideways.

'My understanding is that if I request a specific therapy based on evidence that says it would be best suited to me, then in extenuating circumstances you can transfer me to another borough, where DBT is available and put me on the waiting list. I think 16 therapists and the inability to continue with DBT through no fault of my own is an extenuating circumstance, especially when borough C has no waiting list at the moment.' (I'd done a little research).

Dodo: ‘Unless you see this woman, I will not refer you on’.

My argument in defence was that by jumping through this hoop (see the parallel with the aforementioned chapter?) I was wasting time, because where Dodo could have me put on the waiting list now so that I could start the suitable therapy sooner, she was delaying that by asking me to see a 17th person, because that lady was within her team.

Dad’s argument was ‘Dodo has specifically said that if you don’t see her, you won’t get the treatment you want. Jump through this hoop, because otherwise you’ll be voluntarily rejecting an available service and have to start again with your GP’

He was right. I saw this as blackmail.

Several tears, tantrums, arguments with my father and suicidal thoughts later, I attended the initial meeting and explained to the psychoanalytic therapist, who I will call M, the situation. I asked her to say that since I had attended that meeting, did that now mean that Dodo would transfer me? The second meeting a week later (last week) consisted of me sobbing. ‘No it doesn’t’ M said. ‘She wants you to give it a real go with me’.

'So she's rejecting my request? On what basis?'

'As long as there is an available service in the team that is substantiated by evidence to say it could help, she doesn't have to transfer you.'

'But DBT was working for me. Doesn't that make any difference?'

'Unfortunately not.'

M was very reasonable. She said she understood my predicament, and she admitted that it puts her between a rock and a hard place, too. So I’ve officially requested a meeting with M, Dodo and my father to see why she’s being an arsehole. Obviously that wasn’t the pitch I put forward, but essentially that’s the purpose.