Scattered pieces

The other night, I was locked up in the Police holding cells.  I wasn’t under arrest… I was being assessed under the Mental Health Act. I’m still struggling to see how this is an appropriate way to respond to someone with mental health issues.

The events leading up to my detainment are fairly complex, but the event which triggered the Police involvement was when I abruptly ended a call to the crisis team.  I know that wasn’t the wisest thing to do, and even though I said “goodbye”, the end of the call was abrupt.  This hasn’t been an issue in the past, but for some reason, this time they contacted the Police.

A unit was sent to my house to “assess me”.  As I had stamped everything back down after talking to the crisis team, I felt sure that this would be nothing more than a formality… I was wrong.  The two Police who turned up, said that I didn’t appear happy; so they suggested that they take me back to the station for an assessment by one of the local crisis team.  As I knew that this “suggestion” was not really a suggestion, I went along with them.

This is when things started to get really weird… I was sitting in the back of the police car with the female officer, and she read me my rights – my criminal rights… you know those ones they recite to people in handcuffs in television programs… the ones where I have the right to remain silent, and everything that you say or do can, and will, be taken down and used in a court of law… those rights.

I sat there rather stunned, but agreed that I understood my rights.  She assured me that I wasn’t under arrest, but that assurance came too late… my mind raced to when my father used to take me to the police station with him for the raffle draws, and specifically the time when the policeman put me in the cells to show me what happened to “bad girls”.

When we got to the Police station, things became surreal… I was processed – my property inventoried; my jacket taken (because it had ties); my shoes and earrings removed.  I asked to keep my phone because of my anxieties, but that request was denied.

I was then taken from the intake area to the desk, where I stood within the red square on the floor, and was questioned about my criminal past (or lack thereof).  Thankfully I was wearing jeans which are about two sizes too big, so I could drag the excess material down and stand on that, rather than the cold concrete floor.

Then one of the worst things I have ever experienced… I was taken to a holding cell.  The sound that the door made as they locked me in was incredible.

I sat on the stainless steel bench, shivering uncontrollably, trying to keep it together.  I tried to focus on a spot on the floor of the cell and stay present.  The internal noise was incredible… screaming… yelling that this is what you get for telling the secrets… voices saying to shut up… urges to self-injure… everything came in a rush.

When the crisis team came to assess me, he joined me in the cell.  A man I didn’t know sitting between me and the door, in a small, locked cell.

He asked all of the usual questions, and I reassured him in all the usual ways.  All I wanted to do was go home… that became my goal.  Anything to leave that cell.

He agreed that I could go home.

I know that the crisis team, and the police need to be aware of the safety of their staff… but how is this an appropriate way to handle someone with mental health issues?  At no point was I violent.  I never raised my voice.  I never even looked any of them in they eye.  I was compliant and answered all of their questions.  So why was I put in a locked cell which is usually used for criminal suspects?  I don’t understand.

I remember asking if I was under arrest when they were processing my property.  The policewoman said that I wasn’t… but yet, I was being treated like a criminal.

All I did wrong, was ask for help.  Don’t worry, I won’t be doing that again.

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Now playing: Audioslave – Doesn’t Remind Me
via FoxyTunes

Please note that this may trigger.

It feels like I’m falling into a black hole…

Over the weekend, the dissociative fog was still hanging over me… everything very detached and unreal… Then, in acts of what I can only consider self-sabotage and self-injury, I sought out ways to break through the fog.  It wasn’t smart, it wasn’t pretty, and if it hadn’t been for a good friend, it probably would have led to some seriously stupid actions on my part.

It started off in the morning by going to the shops and buying some L&P, Salt and Vinegar chips and lollie cake… otherwise known as food triggers from my childhood.  I didn’t consciously buy these things, but they were amongst my groceries when I got home.  This stirred things up internally, but I didn’t really think much of it… the dissociative fog was still keeping everything very separate and numb.

Then, in actions that were so stupid, they’re ridiculous… I read an article about ACC’s mishandling of a clients psychological reports… I watched a 20/20 special on CSA… then one on a religious sect in America… then, to top it off, I read several blogs that talked about either consensual sex, or CSA…

Stupid, totally stupid…  That whole concept of telling others to take care and look after themselves… totally lost on me.

After reading a blog about consensual sex, I lost it…  Flashbacks came through like a freight train…  Sounds filled my head… and the smells… the smells… stomach churning, repulsive smells.

I have no idea which young one it was who carried the memories, but she was hurting so much…  The blind panic, the inability to breathe, the need to run…  The overwhelming confusion, the pain…

Too much… just too much.

What does my head in about the memories, is why didn’t I say anything about what was happening?  Why wasn’t my behaviour picked up as being odd by my teachers or doctors?  Was I that good at hiding it all?  Maybe I was, I don’t know… Maybe being part of a white middle class family meant that those sorts of things weren’t meant to happen to me?

Yesterday I remembered a new piece in the puzzle as to why I didn’t tell…  At the rugby club where the father was manager, they had regular raffles.  Each of those raffles had to be drawn in the presence of the Police.  Each time there was a draw, the father used to take me to the Police Station.  I remember that the Police used to joke with me that if I was bad, they’d have to lock me up.  They showed me the cells.  Put me in them and closed the door, so I’d know what it was like.  I know they did this in jest and teasing.  It wasn’t meant to be abusive.  The always laughed and teased the blonde haired girl tagging along with her father.

This is why I believed the implied threats that I would be locked up if I ever told.  That I wouldn’t be believed.  That I was the bad one in the equation…

We went into see Allison today, hoping to talk about all of this.  But we talked about a safety contract instead.  I know safety is important, but I’m scared… I could feel the resentment and resistance to the idea of a contract and our behaviour being “controlled” through reward and consequences.  I worry about what the backlash against the contract is going to be.  Allison says she’s expecting a reaction… which is fine for her, she won’t be the one experiencing it.

I feel like an open wound…  I feel like this…  If you close your eyes and listen, it takes you places…

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Now playing: Wilhelm Kempff plays Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
via FoxyTunes

To put the last week into context, it would help if I explained a little about the past month…  Probably 3 or 4 weeks ago, one of the young ones became convinced that she was an abuser.  We were part of peer sexual abuse from the ages of 3-10 or 12; and some of that included, what she considered to be, causing abuse towards other innocent children.  This was mentioned in session with Liz, but she dismissed it as learned behaviour from adults that was usual for a child with my history.  Our intellectual response to Liz was to agree, it made sense… but not to the young one, as she has no memory of being hurt by adults, only her peers and some teenagers.  This meant that the young one decided that we needed to die for hurting others – people often say that child abusers should be killed, so what made her any different?

Her belief that she was an abuser, was re-enforced by a recent newspaper article that stated children as young as 5 were being picked up by the police as sexual offenders…  Add on top of this, the on-going anxiety about having to go for an ACC assessment; the memories stirred up by the dissolution of the marriage; and hating our current job.  It all added up to a overwhelming mass of conflicting messages and emotions.  The end result was a suicide plan which was to take place yesterday.  On the way to this date, we ended up in the Police Station last weekend…  Sophie called the crisis line and said we were suicidal, which resulted in the Police being called out, and us ending up in a Police holding cell/interview room being assessed by a Police psychiatrist.  He was a very nice psychiatrist, and again tried to convince the young one that she wasn’t abusive, but she had the newspaper article as proof that she was evil…  To make it worse, she now had further proof of her evilness – she had been picked up by the Police…

Last Monday, we went into therapy with Liz needing to work through this belief about us being abusers and the suicide plans for the coming weekend.  Instead, Liz introduced DBT skills.  This isn’t anything against DBT, but it was like throwing a bucket of water on a forest fire… too little, too late.  Liz tried art therapy to try and get us to see that life was worth living, but she kept on hitting a brick wall because she was skirting around the issue and we needed to hit it face on.  Liz’ attempts were frustrating us both, to the point where she said “Do you want to stop therapy”.  She has said this to us on several occasions before, and each time we got the feeling that she was testing us, but this time it was the last straw…  we said “Yes” and left the office.

I know this could be seen as us lashing out with an emotional reaction, and it was in many ways.  But, there was also a feeling that Liz didn’t know what to do to help us.  This was confirmed on Wednesday when we went back for a meeting to see if the relationship could be salvaged.  Our position was that those words and actions made us feel rejected and as if we were too difficult to deal with.  Liz tried to assure us that this wasn’t the case and that she had been there for us.  But her actions and our expectations didn’t meet… that’s not to say that we were expecting 24/7 assistance from her; but many of our reasonable calls for assistance, were met with Liz passing us off onto the Crisis Team or ACC.

So, we’re no longer seeing Liz…

Due to the visit to the Police Station, the Mental Health Crisis Team have again become involved in our care.  This resulted in us having an emergency psychiatric appointment on Friday, where a very intense psychiatrist upped one of our meds and introduced another.  We’re very sensitive to medication – something I forgot to warn the psychiatrist about; so when we had the first night time dose of the new medication, we got about three hours of quite intense akathisia in the legs.  The next day we tried the daytime strength of the med and got about 3 hours of needing to rip our arms up, increased dissociation and anxiety.  The Crisis Team nurse tried to convince us that this was not tied to the medication in any way, and that we just needed to go for a walk…

So this brings us to today… the day after the young one had vowed to take an overdose.  Why are we still here?  Well, it turns out that the reason the suicide plans weren’t followed through was because of needing to fix our car.  I know it sounds silly, but all the motions were set in place for the suicide – house was cleaned, papers put into order and the final thing was to get a warrant of fitness for the car, but it failed.  Because we had to get it fixed, we ate into our savings which the young one had decided was enough for our funeral.  So now the suicide plans are put off until we can save more money for the funeral – she doesn’t want to leave any debt for others to be inconvenienced by.  I know that this is a tenuous reason to stay alive, but I’m hoping it will last us long enough to find some avenue for assistance.

So where to from here?  Well, I’m not really sure.  I see the Crisis Team psychiatrist again on Tuesday.  I was told by Liz that my ACC funding has run out, so the chances of finding a therapist who will accept a dissociative client through ACC is pretty slim.  I’m still waiting for the ACC assessment to determine what assistance I should be getting, and I just got the papers that I have to serve on the ex-husband’s parents to end the marriage.  So I’m in a fairly precarious situation and can’t really see a way out at the moment.  I’m not in any immediate danger – the fear of debt will keep the young one from acting on her plans for probably another few paydays… That gives me about a month to come up with something that will convince her that she’s not the most evil, disgusting thing on this Earth…

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Now playing: Green Day – Wake Me Up When September Ends
via FoxyTunes

Shadows have always been an issue for us – what’s in the shadows, what will come out of the shadows etc.  But one particular nightmare about shadows is the silhouette of a man in the doorway.  As far as I’m aware this particular image has always been the cause of nightmares for us.  It would be fairly easy to draw the conclusion that it’s to do with someone coming in through the doorway at night to hurt us – I’ve no idea if this is really the origins of the image and nightmare.  Maybe we saw a scary movie with this image in it, not sure.

What I do know is that this image plagues our nightmares.  It’s the reason why we have to have the curtains drawn totally over every window in the house once it’s getting dark – there can’t be any possibility of being able to peek outside and see a face looking in at us.  It’s the reason why we have to have the wardrobe doors tightly closed.  However we can’t close the bedroom doors, and this is the current problem.

We’ve constantly got this image of a man standing in the doorway.  We can’t just close the doors.  If you have a cat, you’ll know that the one thing they hate more than an unreliable feeder, is a feeder who closes doors.  It causes an interruption in their nightly checks and wanderings around the house – and what if they suddenly decide that they want to use you as a heat source?  They end up scratching at the door and make their displeasure well known.  The sounds of which are almost as bad as the nightmare image.

One particularly memorable time when this nightmare caused a problem was when the ex-husband was going off to work early in the morning.  He had turned on the lounge light and had come in to kiss us goodbye.  We were half asleep and just felt the bed dip and then this silhouette come towards us.  Well he’d never seen us move so fast.  We screamed and dove off the bed and tried to get under it.  It caused the neighbours to call the police we screamed so loud and with so much fear.  Other times when he’d done the kiss goodbye we would freeze, but for some reason we needed to escape that morning.  Rather embarrassing telling the young officer why we had screamed!

At the moment this nightmare image is particularly bad.  We’ve been averaging 1-3 hours sleep per night for the last two weeks.  We’re bad sleepers anyway, but this is becoming a real problem.  We had a migraine yesterday which was caused by a combination of a lack of sleep and being so tense while trying to sleep that we’ve pulled several muscles in the neck.  It’s now 5:45am and we’re sitting here with a warm milky drink imagining someone walking up behind us and putting their hand on our shoulder.

Hmmm wonder if this is a phobia or paranoia?  We don’t particularly think that anyone is out to get us.  It’s a very much the concept of someone coming to get us, rather than some organised plot to come and get us.  Either way, I really wish it would go away.  But the internal conversation did distract us from the image for a second.

Oh well, off to read for awhile…