I try to only write blogposts when the content has settled enough in my mind to be coherent. If it’s not coherent I mostly either don’t write it or delete it in the middle of the night after posting because I’m ashamed of it. To a certain extent, I think that’s good. Since I stopped brain farting all over this blog I’ve learned how to let my thoughts simmer, see which ones stay around and which evaporate. If they stay they usually form themselves into some sort of pattern and I can do something with that. But sometimes it feeds my insecurities and my reluctance to let anyone see the messier version of me. It’s why I prefer writing. Speaking often involves some mild stuttering these days. Writing makes me seem much more together than I really am.

But I realised over the last week that I’m having a hard time pinpointing how I feel. Sometimes my thoughts, emotions and physical sensations don’t match up and it’s disconcerting. It’s ramped up since yesterday as I prepare to go back to work next week. So instead of letting thoughts settle and then using writing to finish that process, I could try and use writing to bring some order to chaos.

I have started to go stir crazy. Probably not surprising as I’ve had minimal contact with people for six weeks, but it actually took five weeks for me to feel it. For those first five weeks I was happy to stay indoors and knit. I couldn’t even summon the motivation to bake cookies. I moved from bed to sofa to bed most days. I’ve been showering about twice a week, only when I have to leave the house. The trip to Morocco was tricky because I had to fight the urge to stay in the hotel every day. I went to see my family one day a couple of weeks ago and was craving solitude after an afternoon. I sometimes eat over an hour after I get hungry because it takes me that long to move myself and make something. It was just a few days ago that I noticed the change – I was fed up of the flat. I thought that day would never come. ;-)

I’ve taken it as a promising sign that I am ready to go back to work. Be where the people are. Do all the things. Except I suspect I’m not ready to be where the people are all the time and I’m not capable of doing all the things. Hopefully I can do some of the things and be around people some of the time without wanting to top myself after a few days.

I think I’m feeling some anxiety. I’m sure that will come as a surprise to my readers, what with me usually being such a chilled person. Today is proving difficult so far because there’s some feeling of agitation. Maybe restlessness like I should go back to work, maybe nervousness at the thought of going back to work. Maybe post-seeing-friend self-flagellation. Maybe post-crappy-being-shot-in-Syria-combined-with-being-unable-to-find-yarn dream from last night. Maybe I should just have a fucking shower. It could be any of these things making me feel odd today, they’re all very ‘me’. Whatever it is, it’s not responding to the self-soothing tactics I’ve honed over the last few weeks – well, honed makes it sound more than it is, it’s pretty much getting Mr Narky to give me a cuddle, knitting and watching Star Trek. I can’t make the feelings go away so I’ve just had my first drink of wine – at 2pm. Straight from the bottle because I’m that classy. That’s not great, but when the one thing (Diazepam) that stands a chance of helping is not available to you, sometimes you just have to go with the next best thing.

I know my life can’t stay on hold forever. If I don’t go back to work soon others will have to take over large parts of my job and that’s a horrible thought. Seven weeks is the longest I’ve ever been off, and that’s enough. The enforced quiet of these weeks has slowly quietened things down inside me. It’s slowed me down, given me the space to get some perspective about my job and given my boss the opportunity to properly learn about my job, which he had not done, and I had not encouraged him to do, before this. I know I have to pick up the threads of my life again but I am concerned that I won’t know how to contain my anxieties or my energy levels once I do that.

Another thing that’s ramped up its lurking presence in my mind is the CMHT referral. My GP made an urgent referral because of the suicidal impulses I was experiencing. It’s been six weeks and I’ve had one phone call from them. Mr Nice But Pointless told me that I would be given a face to face appointment but it would not be for three to four weeks. I get that, knitting and watching Star Trek has put thoughts of suicide at a distance, so I’m hardly a priority case. I don’t hear voices or hallucinate in any way, I don’t hurt myself, I’m not manic or at risk of slashing my wrists in the bath any time soon. There’s really very little motivation for them to put their resources into helping me. I haven’t heard from them since the phone call two weeks ago. I thought Nice But Pointless meant I would see them in three to four weeks but now I wonder if his three to four weeks meant that would be when I could expect to receive a letter from them informing me of an appointment. Which would make it about two months from urgent referral to knowing when I have an appointment, God only knows how long until the appointment actually arrives. It was three and a half months last time.

Given how little the NHS gives a flying fuck about me, I’m tempted to cancel the referral myself. There’s such a high risk that psychiatrist lottery could make me feel worse about myself. I had a psychiatrist a couple of years ago who looked out of the window as I spoke to him and then sent me on my way after a five minute appointment. He made me feel like I wasn’t worth his time. I don’t want that to happen again. I accepted the referral when things were really shite but I’ve contained the shite now. Alright, things are still a bit weird, I’m not running on all cylinders and I’m resorting to booze when I feel like containment is wavering, but I’m less than confident that the CMHT can help. What I am confident of is that I don’t want them back in my life again, taking control away from me and making me feel about an inch tall.

I just remembered another thing taking up space in my head – what do I tell people when I return to work? When they ask me what has been wrong, and I think at least some will, what do I say?

I’ve had my legs in pins because I shattered them when I went go karting.

I had the flu.

I had a nervous breakdown.

I decided to kill myself so my doctor thought it advisable to take a few weeks off work.

Fuck off you nosy bastard.

It’s crowded in my head today. Half sentences and random words are on repeat. They’re really boring me. A song sometimes repeats the first line over and over, nicking words from other songs, until I end up swearing at myself. The words on repeat are matching themselves to my heart rate and my hands keep moving along to it as well. Faces, other people’s voices, they’re making a collage. And I can hear my own voice narrating, FFS.

It’s no wonder that when I feel a lurch in my stomach I can’t tell if it’s hunger, the beginning of a panic attack or a fart.

On that pleasant note, I’ll bid you farewell. The i and o on my keyboard keep falling off, it’s annoying me so I’ll go back to Star Trek.

I’ve been signed off work for a further few weeks until the last week of June. The guy I spoke to from the Liaison and Intake Team was nice but ultimately useless. Maybe that’s harsh, he assessed me and said I’ll see a psychiatrist face to face, but not for three to four weeks. He told me to see my GP this week so I did and she said not to go back to work. It’s too soon, I don’t have the reserves to cope with it, the medication has had no chance to have any impact, etc. Liaison dude gave me crisis numbers, GP warned me against feeling guilty.

Fuck, this is scary. I have no idea when I will feel better. GP says I will, history says I will, but never have I been in such limbo. I can’t say to my boss when I will be returning to work. There’s no reason for it, my life is good. My job is good, my husband is good, my friends are good, even my knitting is becoming good. So what is happening to me?

A couple of weeks ago, when I had just been signed off work and referred back to the mental health team, I went to band practice at church. I struggled. I remember becoming more and more distressed as the evening went on and not knowing how to handle it. Mr Narky was nearby, my closest friend was right next to me, but I didn’t say anything because others were there too. Eventually, singing became too much for me and I rushed out into the hallway. I leaned against a wall and then started hitting the wall, gasping for breath. Mr Narky found me and asked what was wrong. “How can you ask what is wrong, you know what is wrong! This is shit, this is shit, this is shit!” Going back to a psychiatrist, not knowing how to make myself better, being off work for an unknown period of time, knowing that I have fallen so deep inside a hole that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to climb back out… it all hit hard that evening. I got so distressed that I sank down on the floor while Mr Narky fetched water because I was finding it hard to breathe and my chest hurt quite badly. I realised later that our church secretary was in an office a few feet away and would have heard the various hysterical exclamations of SHIT erupting from me. Oh well. It’ll do him no harm. ;-)

Knowing that I still feel as frightened and bewildered as I did then is why I’m trusting the judgement of my husband and my doctor and doing as they say.

Someone from the CMHT is calling me tomorrow. I assume it will be a psychiatrist but I could be wrong. My GP asked for an urgent referral, which must be the cause of phoning me rather than just giving me an appointment like civilised people. Seriously man, how can anyone be expected to talk honestly about their crazy over the phone? 1) Marbles go missing. 2) Marble-less person is referred back to an unknown psychiatrist. These two things are scary enough without adding 3) talk to unknown psychiatrist on a phone where you can’t see him and can only hear the sound of your own stuttering.

So I thought I’d better try to figure some stuff out before he calls. I was in Morocco last week and I’d honestly rather be writing about that, but real life is back and biting now so reliving memories of a sun-drenched land will have to wait.

I have been signed off work for one more week, making five weeks off in total. I’m supposed to meet my GP this week to discuss going back but that’s not looking too likely at the moment. This phone call may be the best I can hope for. I asked Mr Narky tonight if he thinks I’m ready to go back to work and his response, not altogether surprisingly, was no. He thinks my ability to cope with stress is compromised and I will collapse within a day or two of returning.

I’m afraid of that too. I don’t feel particularly capable of doing all the things that work requires. But maybe I never will so I should just get on and do it anyway? I know I need a fair amount of determination but I don’t feel very determined. I don’t actually feel any different at all to when I first went on sick leave. That’s a sad thing to admit. I should have got a grip on myself by now.

But when I get to ‘should’ that’s when I get myself into a tangle. I have absolutely no idea how to extricate myself from guilt and self criticism enough to be able to make a rational decision. I need to just explain how things are and, for a little while at least, let others make some decisions for me.

Next question [you can treat this as rhetorical, wot with me closing comments due to occasional bouts of ARGH paranoia]: If I’m too wrapped up in guilt and self criticism to be able to talk openly even to my nearest and dearest, even on my own friendly blog, if I flip into “I’m fine!” mode tomorrow, how will whichever unsuspecting caller has the misfortune to be landed with me know how to help me?