Transitioning to CMHT

So a few days ago, I had that day I had been dreading as soon as I got the letter about a month back. That letter being about my first CMHT appointment. For those that are unaware, CMHT stands for community mental health team – in other words, adult services. 

I’ve been with CAMHS for what must be around 3-4 years now, and the thought of leaving what I’ve built there is terrifying. The attachments I’ve formed, the relationships I’ve worked so hard to create, all gone. The very thought makes me want to cut my heart out because it causes me so much pain. It’s fair to say I’ve been dreading this day because of what it signifies – the ending of something old and the start of something new. 

My CAMHS nurse and my psychiatrist came to the appointment, so there wasn’t too much pressure on me to talk which was helpful, since it took me a good 20 minutes to calm down after bursting into tears before even entering the room (pathetic, I know). The psychiatrist seemed intelligent and kindhearted, everything I look for in a psych – I think we’ll get on. He’s appointing me a CPN and is seeing me in two weeks, a step down from my weekly CAMHS appointments but I guess I’ll have to get used to that. CAMHS are still seeing me for a handful of appointments before discharge – the D-word that I can hardly bear to say aloud right now – a prospect I haven’t even began to process. But I will, and it will be painful, yet I will have to get through. 

I have my exams in less than two weeks, so I have to hold it together. Come on girl, you can do this, you have to. You don’t have a choice. Do it. 

Visits and Plans

So it’s been a while since I last updated on here.

I met with my MHO (mental health officer) a while back and managed to speak to her about my attachment issues. Long story short, in two weeks’ time I’ll be going back to school with her to see my old guidance teacher!

I’m excited, nervous and downright terrified to do this. I’m not sure how I’ll react to seeing her, I’m not sure how I’ll be after saying goodbye for the last time. The idea of this visit is to give me closure, but I’m worried that things will escalate after seeing her as this is one of the only things I’m holding out for. 

I have plans for that week, bad plans, and preparations are in progress but I’ve faced the fact that it’s unlikely to do much damage. Still, my head convinces me that it’s worth a try. I wonder what a day of freedom would feel like, a day without making plans, a day with clean arms and being able to eat without obsessing over calories. I mean I weighed a muffin today, for Pete’s sake!

Whatever happens, I know I’ll most likely survive it. I have things to look forward to, university to attend, a birthday to be had. Things are tough but I’ll plod on in my unhappy existence, living for the moments that are marginally less dark. Is this all there is to life? If it is, I’m not sure I want to live it. 

Missing you

So a part of my life that I don’t talk about a lot is attachment. I think I’ve struggled with it for as long as I remember, way back in primary school I would get really upset every year when we changed teacher, even though I knew it was inevitable. 

In the past few years though it’s definitely reared its ugly head more and more often. A year out of school and I’m still painfully attached to teachers and members of staff I used to see, especially my old guidance teacher. Missing her is the basis for the above poem, written on a day when I felt particularly floored by my attachment. 

I guess it’s natural to miss her, she was the first person I opened up to and showed me so much care and compassion that I’m not surprised I became so easily attached. I could probably say she saved my life, and that’s not something you get over easily. 

But oh lord does it cause so much pain. So much pain. Every time I’m out I’m looking for her face, her silhouette, every double take I take rips out another part of my heart – I don’t even know what I’d say to her were I to see her again, I’d probably just cry. I have her email address and it takes everything within me not to contact her, as I know that that would just open up the old wound and aggravate it, but lord do I miss her so much. I miss her so much it physically hurts, I feel sick to my stomach and my heart aches when I think of it. I wish I could get over her, I honestly do and I tried to bring it up with my team yesterday in a note but they ended up focusing on other more concerning parts. 

I just wish I had somebody to talk to about this, it hurts so much to deal with it on my own and so I turn to places like here and Instagram to vent, but it’s never quite the same as speaking to her. It feels like grief, like I’ve lost her forever and a part of me has died. I know these thoughts are irrational, that she’s only supposed to be a fleeting part of my life but it still won’t stop hurting no matter how much I try to rationalise.

I’m not sure what the purpose of this blog post was, I guess I just wanted to share this portion of my life with all of you. 

Missing

in response to this prompt

I am missing. Missing you, missing me, missing a mind that was stable and happy and didn’t make me stick my fingers down my throat or push objects into my arms.

I don’t know how I’m doing. God, I don’t even know who I am right now, I know my name, my address, the fact that I’ve just finished my first exam at university. But where is me? Where is the part of me that cares about things, where is the part of me that feels present in the moment, where is the part of me that seems to have dissipated into thin air? I wish I knew. 

I think things are slowly spiralling again. I inserted for the first time in a couple of months the other night and hid it from CAMHS. I managed to tell them about the purging but I need to hide this for just a little longer. Just a little more, I tell myself. 

When will it ever be enough?

Five to Sixteen

Five to Sixteen – a Spoken Word Poem

At age 5 I dreamed of red ribbons on pointe shoes and silver tutus, pirouetting my way to prima donna beauty. 

I started ballet class in a baby blue dusting of a leotard and pink shoes that always came unlaced. Plié, and up, up, up.

I had started too late for it to ever come to anything, but passed my grade one, first position with merit before moving, pirouetting 289 miles up the country with the earmuffs from our performance of swan lake.

A pattering of years and steps and the red ribbons and leotards faded into books and numbers and The Future where daisy chains and tutus weren’t allowed. I still make daisy chains.

I was six when I fed my baby annabelle apple juice, forgetting that she of course, wasn’t real.

I was two years from sixteen when I first fed myself chalky pills that sent me in tears and a sick bowl to hospital, realising, to my dismay, that I was real.

I was two years from sixteen when I started thinking that if I couldn’t be a Russian ballerina, perhaps I could still look like one. 55 calories in an apple, 96 in a pear.

Now I am sixteen, sixteen thousand miles from the effervescent girl that mixed sprite and fanta in a cup, sixteen miles from the pretend prima donna who would dance without music and run in the rain.

Now I am sixteen, and the only red ribbons I dream of are the ribbons that lace my skin with each tear,

And the only silver that haunts me is the silver threading my mother’s hair.