So all is not well in Jonesy towers. Well in one of the littlest Jonesy family members bowels. There have been some digestive pyrotechnics going on in Jonesy Juniors stomach, and unfortunately we all had a front row seat to that particular chocolate firework display, as did most of the Co-Op. Jonesy Junior was mortified, his siblings positively gleeful ‘he’s just runny bummed in his pants, muhahahahahaha’ – and once again, crisis management was required to stop the literal shit hitting the fan. I swear I could negotiate easier with the UN than with my children when they are trying to lynch each other. So Jonesy Junior is still unwell and not loving life, and is refusing to even come out of his bedroom. I am bracing myself for my little tribe of drama queens to become unwell and anticipate battlefield type scenes of destruction when it hits. Yay for me.
Not that the distraction was particularly unwelcome. My reading for this week was all about the marriage law of consummation, and what English law thinks of artificial vaginas. Yes, that is correct, ‘artificial cavities’ and how much they will ‘accommodate’. For a bunch of prudes the English seem to think the average penis is a lot bigger than really is, they are remarkably detailed regarding this area of law, and I even had to read one article which asserted there is no agreed medical definition of a penis. Well I beg to differ, its orange, with stupid hair and lives in the white house, but I digress. It is detail I feel highly unnecessary in todays society, and I have come away not so much enlightened but bemused, and in need of sensible adult conversation. Problem is I don’t seem to know any sensible adults so I’m fairly stumped.
So I settled for the Brexit debate on BBC Parliament. So I went from being bemused, to outraged, to slightly bemused again, and then googling MP expenses for some of the jeering bullies I was watching, back to outraged again. Tried to watch Lord of the Rings to help me sleep – nope, I have a friend with a mashed up toe, that I think has Hobbit feet, so Bilbo’s brief appearance did nothing to send me off to sleep, but set me off in hysterics with my spiteful temper.
So for another night, in a countless chain of god knows how many I cannot sleep. I really don’t want sleeping tablets again, but I’m not seeing a choice, because I don’t want to risk hypomania. I have experienced one episode of full blown mania, which lasted about a week, but smaller, less severe episodes of hypomania. Now, during these I am not so much manic, but very productive. To the outside world I am doing well, and seem to be getting through and catching up with a lot, but that is not the case. My mind is going at a hundred miles an hour, and I find myself increasingly frustrated with other people and how slow they are. I also don’t retain a lot of information, so these periods are less productive than people think. They drop off after less than a week, followed by another drop in mood, which I can quite frankly do without right now. I am trying to stabilise, and its important to keep to a routine.
Now for someone who is usually quite relaxed, I have to be rigid with routines and it’s frustrating. I have to go to sleep and wake up at the same times, in order to keep a sleep pattern, where I get just the right amount of sleep. Too much and I’m tired, too little and I’m tired – tiredness causes instability in moods, which is not good. I have to eat at the same times, to ensure one I do eat, and that I stay in control of my appetite. I forget to eat and I binge, which leads to weight gain, or even sickness, or loss of appetite. I have to take medication at set times, and so on. I quite like being flexible, having a list of stuff to do and working through it as you please, however with my routine so fixed and the kids routine – the flexibility isn’t always there. So I feel like I’m on a hamster wheel at the moment. Same shit, different day almost.
Plus I had the shittiest letter ever from Caroline telling me because I haven’t made an appointment I’ve been discharged from therapy. Now I wasn’t aware these appointments were therapy, I thought she was a CPN, so this was news to me. I don’t know if that is the sign of a good therapist or a really shit one, when you don’t know you’re supposed to be in therapy, or that you are having therapy. I’m going with really shit. I have written a letter to the PCT outlining my thoughts on this. I don’t expect a happy response. But in essence this is a service the taxpayer is funding, and I think it is so poor they deserve their money back. Now I will fight defending the NHS to my last breath, but this is not a result of budget cuts, this is poor service and delivery. One week I sat in a waiting room for half an hour, before I was told no one was there, and I should go home and rearrange. Cue Caroline ringing me half way up the carpark to ask why I had not shown to my appointment. Turns out the receptionists believe that eating biscuits and talking shit amongst themselves, was in their job description and them telling my nurse I had arrived for my appointment was not. Nurses must come down at appointment times and play hide and seek with their outpatients. Well one of the benefits of being a tubby is that finding me is quite easy, and hiding damn near impossible, so you would think someone with a degree could manage to locate the fat lass, with the resting bitch face, eyeballing the Vera Duckworth lookalike receptionist munching her way through a pack of hobnobs with a look of disapproval on my face Katie Hopkins would high five. So I had to go back into the building, flicking a Baroness Trumpington style V sign at the Vera Duckworth lookalike who told me to go home on the way in, make small talk with Caroline to go back home. They wonder why the NHS is in crisis.
It takes someone remarkable to work at the coal face of the NHS. What the NHS does not need is petty rules, and job descriptions and bull shit politics. Do your job, do it well, and the NHS may just manage. Most professionals do this and more. But mental health services do not have ring fenced funding, to the extra funds placed into it by governments placating national outcries, more than not, it ends up funding gastric bands, or the endless march of the old dears, who we seem to be drowning in. Not where it was promised. As the saying goes, you pay peanuts, you get monkeys. Those receptionists were definitely on peanuts. And as for Caroline, well I’m sure she’ll do very well in MI5 with her top secret therapy no one knows they are receiving.
I was thinking about private therapy, but after that no thanks. I’ll tell my friends and family if I need to talk about anything, and save the receptionists the job of working their fat fingers to the phone (get it, my first pun).
So I need to get some sleep, pray this pin pricky type rash appearing all up my hands and arms, which is getting quite hot, is not shingles, as my god daughter has chicken pox, so I am slightly praying some nasty bug has decided to bite me instead. (In winter I know its reach but work with me here, I don’t fancy singing shingle bells at the Gestapo GP receptionist, who likes to question every thing down to your last bowel movement, which I always offer to do on her desk, before she’ll allow you through the gates of Mordor to see her ‘precious’, I mean Doctor).
Laura 🙂 x