I'm sat at my desk in my office, laptop open, cuppa to my right. It's a little after 9pm on a Wednesday and eight days have passed since my last post. After discussing my blog with a friend she suggested I post more frequently to keep people interested and coming back for more! I honestly don't believe I have folks waiting to hear the latest outpourings from my brain but I do love writing/ blogging and the catharsis I feel when I do it is amazing.
I just had dinner (faux Shreddies with sultanas) and dessert (a Krispy Kreme Nutella doughnut) and now I'm ready to write... Before I crack on, let's just take a moment to deal with the fact that my dinner was cereal and a doughnut. Yes, at 36 I have reverted back to eating like a student. Right now my brain is so overloaded (more on that later) that I can't even face assembling the most basic of meals. For the record, my breakfast and lunch were smashing but then I had popcorn at the cinema, a whole bar of chocolate as I drove home from Aldi and it was downhill from there really. When it comes to me and my eating habits at the mo, I do the best I can but when it goes to shit (as it does most days) I try not to stress. As the title of this post points out, things could be worse. At least I find comfort in Dairy Milk and not a crack den.
Today I returned to my little day job as a lunchtime supervisor at the school my children attend. My GP signed me off on January 2nd so even though the new term is well under way, this was my first day back after the Christmas break. It was wonderful to see all the children again as we really do have the most adorable bunch of smashers at our school. My joy at being back was tinged with sadness however as my last day in that role will be on February 2nd. I registered with an agency onsite at a massive local warehouse and I will be starting work there once I'm finished at school. I'm absolutely gutted that I have to give up this gig that I started back in November 2016. I remember Pete saying it was too much for me on top of my Slimming World groups and he was absolutely right (which, infuriatingly he often is) but I was determined to prove him wrong. And prove him wrong I did! I juggled two groups with my school job for seven months and then I did another seven months of both jobs with the added stress of a third SW group. Alas, all good things must come to an end and it's time to move on... I got teary thinking about it today so Lord only knows what fucking state I'll be in on my last day.
In all honesty, the warehouse job nearly didn't happen after I lost my shit completely trying to find the right fucking building yesterday. I said earlier that the warehouse is massive? Doesn't really cover it. It's vast and the site doesn't have very clear sign posting. I arrived, parked and walked to a gate with an intercom. Buzzed it and was told I'm in the wrong place. Fine! Where do I need to go? The far end, the voice tells me. I get back in to my car and try a different entrance only to find myself at a barrier with a gigantic lorry behind me waiting to come in. If I was in the wrong place before, then where I am now is even wrongerer! I had to get out, ask the lorry to back up so I could reverse and drive off. It's not the end of the world, indeed some people may even have found it funny. Not I. I cried. Hot, angry tears making my make up run. I sat in my car and wept because I just felt so useless and stupid. I feel that way a lot and thanks to my assessment last week, I am beginning to understand why.
Once I'd got a fucking grip, I found the right building and all was well. I passed the numeracy and literacy tests (thank the Lord, my brain still works!) and am good to go from early February. It's shift work: 6am until 2pm or 2pm until 10pm. I am terrified and oddly excited in equal measure. After so many years of feeling like I should be someone, that I was destined for stardom and greatness, I'm actually excited by the prospect of a job that I can walk away from at the end of each shift and not think about until the next time I clock in. As long as the folk I'm working with are okay and I settle in, I think I should be fine. I bloody hope so...
So... In my last post I mentioned that I was due to meet with my local Community Mental Health Team to be assessed. After the absolutely hellish roller coaster of emotions that unfolded in the wake of my decision to perhaps NOT be an SW consultant anymore, I went to my GP and begged for help. It's not that I haven't had support where my mental health is concerned from my doctors in the past but I've never had an official diagnosis. It might seem odd that I was pursuing a label when many people hate the idea of being pigeon holed but I just wanted to know if there was something more wrong with me than depression. I wouldn't dream of saying 'just' depression as I know how debilitating that can be but I felt like there was a bit more to what I was going through. Turns out I was right! Who'd have thunk it?!
Last Tuesday afternoon I sat in a room at a local hospital with a member of the UCAT (Urgent Care Assessment Team) and I talked. A lot. Nothing unusual there, I've never been one to keep my gob shut. She asked me questions and I answered them honestly. I certainly wasn't trying to lead her in any specific direction and I'm sure she's experienced enough to know when a patient is trying to do that. I admitted to certain things I've done over the years that I'm not proud of but I wanted her to have as complete a picture as possible.
After well over an hour of talking from me and furious typing from her she asked me if I wanted a diagnosis. Some patients don't apparently want one, preferring just to look at treatment and how to move forward. I wanted an answer. I've had more than twenty bastard years of acting in ways that make no sense to me, decades of destroying my own chances at happiness and of feeling pointless and unworthy of love... To just not understand why you do the things you do or why you say certain things is a pretty crappy way to live. How about loathing your own company, believing wholeheartedly that everyone would be better off in you weren't around? Yeah, that's no fun either and no, I'm not suicidal and thankfully I never have been but the desire to just pack a bag and go somewhere so as not to inflict myself on the people I love any more? I fight that urge almost every single day. Why? Why am I like this? What's fucking wrong with me...?
Borderline Personality Disorder or BPD.
The NHS website describes it thus...
The NHS website describes it thus...
Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a disorder of mood and how a person interacts with others. It's the most commonly recognised personality disorder.
In general, someone with a personality disorder will differ significantly from an average person in terms of how he or she thinks, perceives, feels or relates to others.
And just like that, I feel better. After spending the best part of my life thinking I was a bit of a knob, I can now actually say that there is something wrong with me. I am officially mentally unwell and I'm fucking delighted about it! Is that wrong? Am I supposed to be sad? Well I'm not. If I had tonsillitis, they'd give me antibiotics and okay, I'd imagine a poorly personality is not quite so easily treated but it CAN be treated. Different medication, therapies, group support... whatever. Bring it the fuck on because I am ready. Do I think I can be cured? Probably not. Will I always suffer certain symptoms? Almost definitely... However, it can't control me in the way that it once did because I know about it now. I can read up (reputable sources only, obviously!) and learn and understand my illness and as a result of that, understand myself better too.
Pressing publish on this post scares the shit out of me. I've been telling friends over the past week what the outcome of my assessment was. In true Kati style, I may have described myself as being "officially crackers" which I know I shouldn't but I've used humour as a defence mechanism since I could speak and I don't imagine that's going to change any time soon. In all honesty, I'm not sure I'd want it to. That said, throwing something out in to the world, confirming I have a mental illness is a pretty big deal... But do you know what? It's okay not to be okay. That's a hashtag so it must be true! I might not be okay now. I may not have been okay for large chunks of my life so far but I can get better. I will get better. Just you watch me...
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