(though not necessarily in that order)

(though not necessarily in that order)

Friday, 4 February 2011

GP versus me, part *fumes*

Yes, this is angry. Yes, it probably seems like I'm making a storm out of a ripple in a teeny tiny puddle, but...

Went to the GP again on Monday (I can't be bothered to find links to the other posts on this, but they are there somewhere). She was going to discuss my case with another GP then make a decision about where to refer me.

I, in the course of the appointment, said that I clearly hadn't taken the painkillers daily throughout the whole 2 month prescription as I only ran out after nearly 2.5 months. I am forgetful, I am not always completely on top of that "functioning" thing, I'll admit that. Anyway, letter in the post this morning:

"We agreed that there is unlikely to be anything significant going on. I wonder if you could be fastidious about remembering to take you [painkiller name] on a regular basis. In fact you could ring in in a fortnight's time and let me know how you are getting on. If you are no better then we will have to refer you but a proper trial of the anti inflammatories would be quite useful. Yours..."
So clearly I'm not experiencing pain, it is all in my head. Clearly. Because I've got a ridiculous sized set of notes all of which are to do with my mental health. And I forgot to take some tablets on the occasional day (and then usually regretted it the next day when I hurt more, but kept to only taking them in the evening so I didn't get out of sync with it) so I couldn't possibly be in significant pain. No, surely not! All part of my mind complaining about the imminent discharge from mental health services, I bet.
The fact I hurt too much to walk to my nearest work place on a daily basis isn't enough. Where I have to give in and use my last 5 pounds in my purse to get a taxi home from the station because I simply can't face the walk. Where I feel I'm going to miss out on Spring because I can't go for long walks in the countryside and the changes in the trees out of my bedroom window are going to be it.

She tried to ascertain whether I was stressed. Said how difficult she thought studying maths is. I felt like saying (as she was moving my leg up to my head, so I wasn't exactly able to form sentences as I was more concerned about not falling off the bed which was a distinct possibility) "Look, firstly maths is what is keeping me sane. I love it. Its frustrations are not stressful but utterly amazing. Secondly, I'm sure med school was far more stressful, so don't take pity on me for basically studying out of a love of the subject. The only thing I am really worried/stressed about is my body not working." What I did say was "No, I'm not stressed about it." and then nearly fell off the bed...

Clearly though, I'm a nutcase. Who is covered in scars, so clearly will always be one. Who is going to be referred iff (sorry, if and only if, I'm a mathematician, we take shortcuts in writing, y'see, oh just like medical peeps do...) she doesn't shut up and stop moaning and takes her painkillers. It makes it sound like they will only refer me if they have to if I don't get better with the not-particularly-strong painkillers. And will do so begrudgingly.

Every appointment I'm fighting with my inner "they'll never believe you, you are deemed mad" voice. Every appointment has taken days to work up to even getting there. I ran out of meds on Friday, but all of last week couldn't consider getting to see her as I hate doctors. I only went on Monday because I was desperate enough to put my distrust of things to one side. Doctors, especially those in a non-mental health setting, don't believe me. They didn't believe I had taken what I said I had when I turned up to A&E looking very ill, throwing up and accompanied by 2 security guards and a nurse - my blood results meant I was clearly a lying scum who just wanted an admission to the psych ward. (Err, no. I ended up in A&E after I was found and was too physically unwell to persuade them I was not going to go to A&E. CLEARLY I didn't want a psych ward admission, I couldn't think of anything worse. Sadly, they got their way and I spent a weekend in a room with paint falling off the walls and Ms SnoreALot behind a curtain as they were shared rooms. The next week I was admitted again and spent 3 months behind the locked doors as I did for what was meant to be my first semester at university.) And then in a mental health setting, they end up inferring I'm some seriously mentally ill person at times as they over-believe me. I can't win.

I can't help but think they've decided I'm lying. That because my memory is shit I must not be in the pain I say I am. This one paragraph letter, with a misspelling too, has depleted my spoons for the day to fairly low levels because I am getting worked up about it. The fact I'm talking about spoons indicates I'm not exactly feeling like a physically healthy being.

Anger is good. Let it all out, they say. I can't go on an angry walk, or play the piano angrily, or rip material as I haven't got the strength. So, GP is now on my "arsey-feckers" list. I'm in pain. And have not even opened my books today yet to start studying. Fabulous. *screams*
It feels like a kick in the teeth. Like I can't be trusted to know I'm physically not right, because I've spent 8 years in the mental health part of the NHS.  The thing is, without trying to self-diagnose from the internet but just doing a bit of rummaging around being as impartial as I can be/talking to a few others who are in a far worse state physically that I am, I think there is a possibility I'm going to be involved in the system for a while. That is if I give in and go back to the GP. Of course, right now, it feels like I should just give up with finding answers and do my best to carry on living as I am and do things alone. I'm not sure I can though. Arrrggh, arsey-feckers. She seemed so bloody helpful on Monday too - had no idea what it is but talked about different teams to refer me to as if some progress was being made.

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