Sore!

I had my sterilisation operation on September 19th. It went very well, apart from waking up after the anaesthetic in such pain that even three shots of morphine did nothing for the pain. In fact, the pain was so bad that I didn't mind when the nurse suggested a Voltarol suppository for the pain, and then inserted it up my rectum after I assented to the procedure.

The morphine must have still been in my system afterwards, though, because the next day I felt well enough to pay a visit to the Mind, Body and Spirit fair at Crosby Civic Hall. Then, about an hour into my visit, I suddenly felt ill and had to come home.

I was in pain, and feeling faint, for about a week after the operation. Then the pain and feeling faint diminished a bit, but a new spectre raised its head...infection.

The scar in my navel became red and very sore. After visiting the doctor on Tuesday, I was prescribed an antibiotic ointment (Fucidin), and I've been told that if things are no better by Friday and/or the stitches are still there to return to the Womens Hospital in Liverpool.

The scar has now gone swollen and turned an interesting shade of purple.

One good thing has happened recently. Last night, Paul began to teach Gabrielle some more chess moves. He used to be a junior chess champion, so Gabs is in good hands. There is a chess club during school time on Mondays and Wednesdays, so she can try out her new skills on her class mates.

I've also started my jewellery making again, what with the long autumn evenings drawing in. Hopefully I'll build up my stock again for my eBay shop. Even more hopefully, maybe I'll sell some of them.

White Water Fowl

I now have counselling every Thursday afternoon in Fazakerley Hospital with a lovely man called Alan Corkish. He's an interesting guy who used to teach drama at one of my old schools and then retrained as a counsellor. He's still involved in the arts to this day.

During a recent session, he pointed out something to me. I talked about the only pub I feel relaxed in - The Swan in Liverpool City Centre, the fact that I like to walk along the canal bank and feed the water birds - including swans, and there were some other examples of swans turning up in my life which I've forgotten for the moment, but I bet I'll remember as soon as I press the 'Publish Post' button.

Swans and swan imagery are turning up in my life over and over again.

Not long after the suicide attempt, I was browsing the Internet, flicking idly from page to page, and for some inexplicable reason swans were turning up left, right and centre. I wasn't even looking for them.

One example of this is concerned with Whitby Jet. I am a big fan of this 'stone' and have recently started to collect it. When I was looking on eBay on the day of the 'swan' synchronicity, I came across the Whitby Jet swan pendant you can see at the top of this entry. I felt strongly directed to bid for this item, and despite stiff competition, I won it!

I have done a lot of reading up on swans on metaphysical websites and basically swans represent grace.

I am still trying to digest all of this as I type this, and no doubt will be for a while, but I have a strong suspicion that the swan is my power animal.

A Painful Update

July 4th will probably stay etched in my memory forever.

I'm going to do one of my lazy 'copy-and-paste' jobs because I certainly don't want to write this out again.

This is what I posted on one of my forums: 'I've hit rock bottom. I just can't take any more. I'm so sleep deprived, it just isn't funny any more, and I had to take a cab to take Gabs into school because the battery in my car was flat, and Paul had a flat tyre. My Mum wasn't exactly nice to me this morning, and Gabs told me that Paul was fed up of driving her into school in the morning. I guess that this is goodbye. You have all been a wonderful support to me over the years and I thank you and bless you all from the bottom of my heart. God bless!'

I'd reached the point where I felt overwhelmed by everything, and just gave up on life.

The next day, I wrote the follow up: 'My head is still a bit fuzzy from yesterday. I feel that you all need an explanation of what happened....so I'll do my best to tell my story. As many of you have guessed, I was extremely sleep deprived for several days. My depression had reached a level where nothing gave me pleasure any more, and after my last experience with the so-called 'crisis team' I did not want 'professional' intervention. So, to whizz on to yesterday morning. I was extremely tired, felt like death warmed up, had to take Gabs to school in a cab after finding both cars 'inoperative'. By the time I was on my way home from school, I was entertaining thoughts of suicide. I had one last appeal for help. I went into my Mum's room and said, 'Mum, I'm scared. I feel really suicidal!' Her reply was a terse 'Well, so do I!' Then she turned over and ignored me. That left me wondering why the Hell I bothered fighting for this life any more. So, I took my bag, decanted a load of white wine into a plastic bottle, filled my bag with various medication and set off. Close to my house is a railway embankment, locally called the Ralla. It has some beautiful trees, and one tree I love especially is a pussy willow which has grown into a natural den. You can sit with your back against the trunk and be surround by leafy branches...well hidden. It was like being in the womb of Mother Earth. I am a lousy alcoholic and a terrible coward. So I began sipping the wine, and taking an OTC sleeping tablet. I carried on doing this at intervals until I (hopefully) reached the point where I felt so sleepy I'd swallow everything else. The sun shone beautifully through the leafy mosaic above me. It was a good place to die, and I thought about how my body would be a lovely fertiliser for this kind tree. Eventually, I'd taken an estimated 12-14 tablets with wine, and was contemplating if I felt strong enough to start on the others. I was really groggy by this time, and as I checked my mobile to look at the time, Paul rang. I told him that I loved him, and I think I rang off at that point. The next thing I remember, Paul was walking me down the embankment (he said he'd worked out where I was because he heard a train go past). I twisted my ankle badly at one point, because I was so unsteady on my feet. There was an ambulance waiting for me, and a line of nosy neighbours watched me as an ambulance man walked me to the vehicle. Paul came with me. They immediately put a cannula in my arm, took blood samples and I think did other things (remember how groggy I said I was?) In the hospital, I was put on a saline drip, has more blood taken, a urine sample taken and a blood gases sample taken from my wrist. They also kept shining lights in my eyes and checking for other signs of neurological damage. Paul hardly ever left my side. If it hadn't been for him...welll.... After about twelve hours, and an assessment by a psychiatrist so different from the last one I saw in emergency that it was damn near unbelieveable (he was a really lovely guy, and the staff at Fazakerley Hospital were all wonderful), I was allowed home. The only thing was, I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to meet my Mum again. And I was bloody right! She berated Paul from not keeping her informed (he had), claimed not to remember what she'd said to me this morning, and so on. Paul eventually told me to go to bed before she upset me further. So, I'm here...thanks to Paul and the marvellous emergency team at the hospital. My Mum is still claiming that Paul didn't keep her in touch, and is all full of herself and what the effect has been on her. In some respects, I feel like I am back at square one with my Mum. I felt so unloved by her. Oh, don't get me wrong, she has LOVED the drama. She's been out in thet street today, telling everyone her version of the events, and it sounds like she is making Paul out to be the 'bad guy'. I called my sister, Sue, this afternoon, when I felt slightly less groggy, and she confirmed most of my suspicions about what Mum had said to others. No-one is 100% good, or 100% bad, but I have to admit...I'm scared of this happening again. I can't stand this twisting of events and emotional blackmail from Mum. She's just gone up to her bedroom because Paul walked into the room. Here we go again.... BTW: the psychiatrist suggested that my Mum spend a day or so a week at one of my sisters. I explained that one sister has six kids and doesn't have the room, and my other sister is also a depressive, so Mum would have her reduced to slashing her wrists in an estimated two days. My Mum is not always so unfeeling, but she does have these weird phases, and to be frank I can't handle them any more. Yesterday, she caught me at a really low point and made me feel worse. What the Hell can I do?'

And on the next day: 'Well, it has just got worse. She has made Paul out to be the bad guy, bitched about him to all the neighbours AND to his parents. She claims that Paul didn't keep her informed on Friday, and had forgotten that it was her comment that took me over the edge. Remember about a year or two ago, when Sue tried suicide and she kept it quiet for a few days? I feel for her now. I've had a good chat with her and she said that Mum shouted down the phone at her when she found out, hence the reason why she kept quiet about it. Paul's Mum tried to take him to task today, because she'd got an earful from my Mum, and finally (when Paul got a word in edgeways), he told her the truth. Paul's brother has kindly offered his own home to us for five days a week, as he works away from home. Mum has gone absolutely paranoid, is convinced that we're trying to get her out of the house (?), and finally, when I said that I could provide proof of her reaction to Sue's suicide attempt, she took off out the door, saying more or less that she wouldn't be back and hinting that she was going to 'do it'. She's done this before...and has come back safe each time. Several years ago, when my Dad was ill, I had to drag her to the doctors after she took a shower in her nightdress one night and claimed to have a little goblin friend. I don't want to intervene again, and I really think that she needs to see a doctor...but even if she did I fear that she wouldn't tell the truth. I've kept Sue informed, but can't get hold of Janet. Jesus Christ! I've had enough of this.... '

Mum eventually turned up safe and sound at Janet's, and Janet told me that Mum had left because the house was a tip! Thanks for your help, sis...NOT!

Small Things Make Me Happy

I've recently made a habit of trying to identify the trees close to my house when I walk Barney.

As I am at heart a zoologist, this switch to botany is taxing my skill at identifying species. However, I am perservering.

I've known for years that the trees closest to my house are poplars, and there is a spectacular flowering Japanese cherry tree right outside my gate, but to my delight I also noted a wild/bird cherry tree closeby this Spring. I can just make out some little green cherries on it right now.

The horsechestnut trees are also growing bigger and bigger each year, despite the depredations of some of the local children, who like to collect the (unripe) conkers by pulling down the branches...in many cases breaking them off. It is a tribute to the tenacity of these trees that they are able to withstand such damage and still grow.

There is also an alder close to the car park (a local neighbour who complains about it threatens to cut it down as it interferes with her light levels in her front room...fortunately, she knows that she'd be prosecuted for this!).

Up on the Ralla (the local name for the old diesel engine train embankment at the side of my house) there is a goat/pussy willow. This tree has formed a natural 'den', with the branches forming an almost perfect cone around the base of the trunk. It can easily accomodate a group of adults, as the local teenagers have discovered. These teenagers have taken to having drunken sprees up in the shelter of the tree, which I wouldn't mind but for the mess of beer cans etc they leave behind. I was also horrified to see that a huge portion of bark had been stripped away from one of the main branches. Gabrielle and I touched the exposed branch: it felt so cold compared to the rest of the tree that Gabrielle suggested going home and putting a towel over it to keep it warm. Bless her little eight-year-old heart! Fortunately, the tree seems to be weathering the assault quite welll, to my relief.

My greatest find has been the discovery of a genuine English Oak on the top of the Ralla. It has survived a small fire nearby, and is still growing quite strong. Oaks are usually a sign of mature woodland, hence my especial delight at finding this tree growing here.

I wish, wish, wish I could educate the young people nearby about the trees and how significant they are. My Gabrielle appreciates them, and indeed is very sensitive to nature in general, but then I have been guiding her almost from the day she was born. I take whatever opportunity I can, but so often the kids don't want to know.

I imagine that the local kids have me labelled as the local neighborhood nature crank, as well as the local crazy cat woman.

Oh well...

Is the medical profession actually there to help me?

I am cutting and pasting from what I posted on another forum, because it would take too long, and be too painful, for me to type this out again.

I have just experienced my worst day EVER in dealing with health care professionals.

First off, I saw the excellent Occupational Health doctor, who was so scared by my condition (suicidal) that she rang my GP there and then to get an appointment.

After waiting for a while in my GP's waiting room, I was eventually seen. My GP told me that there was nothing he could do, and that no tablets would help my problem. I got the impression that you had to actually attempt suicide before the professionals would take action (what about suicide prevention?). Thankfully, he still rang up the hospital and wrote a letter for me to take in to the local Accident and Emergency department.

By this time, Paul was so concerned he had come home from work, and he accompanied me from the doctors to the hospital (I was in tears all this time).

We waited some 2-3 hours to be seen to, after handing the letter in to the triage nurse. Eventually we were seen to by the 'Crisis Team'.

From the moment I walked in, I was talked down to by a skinny little Asian doctor. I was having hysterics, in tears, and not one health-care professional seemed to be listening to me. I was told again that tablets wouldn't solve things (yeah, but they may improve my feelings somewhat), and then later on in the interview the guy changed his tune and told me that I needed different tablets. WTF was I meant to believe?

Towards the end, I took exception to being talked down to like a naughty little girl, and told him not to point his finger at me whilst talking to me.

He took off like a scalded cat, saying that he didn't need this abuse, and that there were other patients who wanted his help. He departed muttering.

I am speechless in shock! These people were dealing with a suicidal depressive!!!!!

Well, tomorrow I am due to see a psychiatrist at 2pm. I've gone through Hell and highwater to get this far, and now have absolutely no faith left in the healthcare profession as far as mental health goes.

I really wish I'd succeeded in my attempt several years ago and spared myself this anguish. I've had to fight this every step of the way, and feel as if I've got nowhere. NOWHERE!!!

I'm going through the motions of this for my family, but I have little hope left.

That guy I saw wasn't nice at all. He was a tin-pot Hitler on a power trip, who spent the whole session trying to score points off a vulnerable person.

I had Paul there as an independent witness, and thank God!!! Otherwise, that little sh*t will just slip the words 'abusive patient' in my file and be done with me.

We are currently thinking about lodging a formal complaint against this guy. Paul, fortunately, knows the person who deals with the complaints at that hospital - he trained her! I also spoke to Sue, my sister. The same guy pulled the same stunt with her.

Vulnerable people SHOULD NOT, I REPEAT, SHOULD NOT BE EXPOSED TO PEOPLE LIKE THAT!!! (shouts in a loud hailer) No one on God's green earth should go through what I went through today. For fucks sake, if I hadn't felt suicidal before, I certainly would have after that.

He also admitted later on in the interview that I do have a chemical imbalance, and need medication (one of the little contradictions he slipped into the interrogation). Paul and I will be writing this up to submit the formal complaint. I am really fucking ANGRY now.

Another little point. Someone from the same team told me years ago (after suicide attempt #1) that 'I was an intelligent woman and should pull myself together' I replied 'Then why am I here? It's obvious that I need help!

That's the end of my cut'n'paste. Does the NHS actually care about the depressed, or want them to get better?

I have to post this...

...yes, I am a HUGE fan of The Crow (and The Cure).



http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=YFPlEpi__wc"

A new year, a new start...same old shit

I don't really know where to start with this entry.

New Year was awful. That goes without saying, really, for those of you who know me. Family issues, missing BiBi and Dad, wishing I could join them etc.

Things sort of picked up in the last week or so. I had the energy to do things like go to the beach and watch the stormy sea at high water. However, today has seen things return to the same old shit.

I have major relationship issues with Paul. He visited his doctor today, and his GP says that his headaches are due to stress. However, he wouldn't take the medication. To give Paul his due, he has just told me that his GP recommended Migralieve, which is cheaper over the counter than on prescription. He was also advised to take more exercise. Now this I can understand. His spare time is spent just watching TV, and maybe going on the 'Net. The number of times I've felt like putting my foot through that fucking TV when I see sport on it AGAIN!!!

We don't have much in common these days. Communication problems are rife, too.

I've removed my engagement ring and left it on a table in the front room, although I don't suppose he'll notice.

Of course, being a typical bloke, he probably wouldn't acknowledge the fact that we do have problems.

I feel unloved. As if I'm only good enough for you-know-what. And I don't know where to go from here.

What is left for me in this life, eh?

Today I was looking at methods of suicide again. The two I've boiled it down to are hypothermia and drowning. I nearly drowned twice as a kid, and I remember after the struggling feeling a strange sense of peace and acceptance. Then I was rescued...fuck it!

I'm giving myself a twenty-four hour distance to see if I still feel the same.

If I do...well, who knows?