Trigger Warning: This post discusses topics of mental health and suicide. If you are struggling with these issues, please reach out to a mental health professional or crisis hotline.
Throughout the isolation of mental health struggles, this blog was written for myself…
I cannot verbalise how lucky I feel that I am being given the help that I am, because I know personally how long it takes to get it and how difficult it is to ‘prove’ that you require the help. However, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m still on a rough and treacherous journey.
I have now been added three more medications, taking my daily prescription up to a total of;
150mg of Venlafaxine, as my antidepressant. This is an SNRI which works by increasing the neurotransmitters serotonin and norepinephrine
5mg of Aripiprazole (due to be increased to 10mg next week) which is classed as an anti-psychotic medication but used as a mood stabiliser in my case,
4mg of Hypovase (Prazosin) to combat the nightmares linked to my PTSD
4mg of Diazepam PRN (to be taken when needed, in two doses of 2mg)
In addition to this, I have good support from the CMHT and my family, and I will be starting a trauma therapy group tomorrow that will last approximately 10 weeks. Yet, I find myself a few days a week adding apologies to letters I intended to leave my husband and son.
The journey to recovery isn’t linear, and I don’t know what is more exhausting: having the hope ripped from under your feet each time you think you’re making progress and your body decides to fight against it, or not having the hope at all.
I am trying to have faith in the services available to me, and again, words could not describe the amount of luck I know I have in having the support I do. But I can’t help but feel like I’m alone the majority of the time. The nostalgia and the ‘urgency’ of illness wears off quickly, and you begin to feel like an inconvenience again. It can be very isolating. You find people don’t know what to say anymore.
After countless A&E visits, GP appointments, specialist consultations, CBMP’s, NHS and private therapy, a stay in a crisis home, and over 15 medications now tried, there’s one thing that I have missed from my treatment plan—and that’s being able to talk to someone about it all. I’m not looking for advice or guidance, or even a shoulder to cry on. I’m just looking for someone to hear what I’m saying, not what’s just on paper.
When dealing with mental health struggles, feelings are felt a hundred times over. I feel let down. I feel hurt. I feel unloved. I feel underappreciated. I feel worthless. I feel lost. I feel scared. I feel tired—so, so tired. I feel confused. I feel betrayed. I feel so, so, so sad, and the only time I feel any release, or any momentary happiness or solace, is when I think about not being here anymore.
This may sound alarming and unstable to a lot, but this is very normal for me and has been for the better half of a year, at least. I am struggling to talk, struggling immensely to sleep, to eat. I feel like the power to get through each day depends on me finding the needle in the haystack.
But I’m still fighting. I want to see some more sunsets, and some beautiful shades of blue in the seas. I want to see my son grow facial hair and give me attitude, and then ask me for £20. I want to have a horribly dated 50th wedding anniversary party that everyone under 60 is going to hate coming to. I want to achieve something in life. I want my name to be tied to something valuable, to some research, to something new—not an obituary of a ‘life gone too soon.’
So although this may seem like my weakest moment, it is a sign of immense strength, and I will pride myself on this.
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