Well. This was a position I was hoping I wouldn’t find myself in again quite so soon.
I’ve had a really good couple of weeks! The mania calmed down (having had my parents pay £300 for a private psychiatrist to adjust my meds), but I stayed focused and motivated. Wrote a good chunk of my dissertation, got a load of tasks done that needed doing.
And now I find myself sitting in my car, too worried of going into my flat, for fear of what I’ll end up doing to myself.
And the main, contributing factor? Something I’ve loved from the moment I became involved. Something which made me feel like I belonged, and gave me a sense of community and companionship. Something where for the first time in my life, I felt I was a natural, and that I was actually good at something.
But clearly, none of that matters.
Until shortly before Christmas, I’d never really felt true discrimination. Sure, I’d had people leave me because of my mental health, and I’d been told that I temporarily couldn’t partake in certain activities as a result of crises, but I’d never truly felt discrimination.
But, despite being signed off as fit to work, by 2 psychiatrists, an associate mental health practitioner, and my GP, I was told I was no longer allowed to volunteer my time doing what I loved. I’d already had 6 weeks of this, due to delays on both my part, and that of the organisation, only to be told that I had a further 6 and a half months to wait until my next review. At which point, I may or may not be allowed to continue.
At no point was I consulted to see what had actually happened, at no point was I offered any support, by an organisation which is supposed to help save lives. I have had no welfare checks. Nobody even contacted me to ask if I was ok. I was just told I was no longer wanted, because I have a mental illness.
As if this didn’t hurt enough, I was then bullied out of the equating society at university. I had donated to much time and effort, and was essentially told it wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t good enough.
So I carried on, clinging to the last part of the organisation available to me. And now that has gone. Admittedly, this time through my own choosing, but I didn’t have much choice. However hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough. The constant onslaught criticism was damaging me to the point where I repeatedly found that on the days I was supposed to be attending these sessions, I couldn’t, or could barely leave the house at all. I understand that it’s difficult to work with someone who struggles with organisation, but when you repeatedly do your best, only to be told it’s worthless, it does grind you down.
I feel somewhat like Icarus. I got too close to the sun, believed I was good at something. I believed the praise I had from others. I accepted the regional awards, and gradually came to accept that, maybe, I at least slightly deserved them. And now it’s all gone. Because I’m clearly not good enough for that to be more important than my mental health. The awards were hollow, and the praise clearly misdirected.
So here I sit. Reminded of why I felt worthless for all of those years. Reminded of how my mental health deteriorated to such an extent. Reminded that, most of the time, my best isn’t good enough.
Maybe I shouldn’t be going into medicine at all. I mean, I sure as hell don’t feel I deserve that place. I’m still waiting for an email to tell me it was a mistake. I struggle to take criticism, and that’s a key part of medicine, but I don’t know how to change that in order to accept it, without allowing myself to feel so desolate. I’m sure there are many acquaintances of mine, muttering behind my back about how I’m not suited to the career, and maybe they’re right. If I’m not good enough for the thing that pointed me down this path, then maybe I’m not good enough at all.
I remember, now, why I never allowed myself to feel good about anything I ever did. Because when I return to face reality, I feel even worse. And feeling worse, gets dangerous.
I’m angry and hurt, more than I could possibly explain, that something which was such a wonderful thing, and had such a positive impact on my life, has directly led me to feeling like none of this is worth the pain and misery.
My wonderful flatmate, and the best friend I have ever had the pleasuring of being a part of my life, has come to escort me inside. She knows the full context, and understands why I’m feeling like this. I’m sure she knows many of the unspoken thoughts that are going through my head.
But there are many times, like now, where the only thing stopping me, the only thing keeping me here, is the knowledge of what it would do to her. And I desperately hope I could never do that.
Just Another nutter 