You can push a person too far, and right now I’m at the end of a very long, frayed rope….
Yesterday, after months of saint like patience and extraordinary self control, I finally snapped tore one the Perkies a new arsehole (in the manner of Rorschach after a particularly trying day) when, on receipt of my desperate plea for timings and information re my schema therapy treatment, she let it slip that the start date had been moved AGAIN, (4 times to date) and my formal written diagnosis of my condition would not be sent out until everyone involved had completed their questionnaire sessions.
‘How do their answers have any bearing on your analysing and sending out mine?’ I asked in reasonable, if slightly strangled tones, moments before I flipped.
‘Well..um…I’m not sure, but I’m calling you back just to say…well…you know…we understand it must be soooo stressful…’
‘Actually I don’t think you do. Because I’ve almost ran out of money and may not be in situ by the time you, sorry, they get their arse in gear and finalise a date.’ ‘Oh no’ she replied in those oh so familiar sickly sweet tones, ‘that must be sooo awful….’
‘You know what? I don’t think you’re getting it. I’ve had to put my flat on the market, I’m down to my last grand, I’ve just had 2 bills that will amount to, oh say around £10K that need paying this year, and I don’t have a fucking job!’
‘Right. Oh. I’m so sorry to….’
‘Sorry but I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want your standardised scripted call back that you make “so they feel acknowledged and listened to” because it’s bullshit. It’s like you’ve recorded the same droning faux sympathetic message and play it down the receiver to all of us, and it’s just not good enough. This is beyond a joke. I’ve been waiting nearly a year for treatment since his nibs charmingly informing me that I was BPD and I’ve had to deal with the fall out of that all on my own (sorry Aunty C) whilst you lot diddle around, putting us through hours and hours of the same stupid fucking questions, intermittently treating us to your best ‘oh dear’ faces in lieu of real empathy, and move the goal posts again, again and again….’
‘Oh, well I….’
‘….and in the meantime we all sit in limbo, either hanging onto our place in society for grim death or mouldering away at home waiting for SOME TANGIBLE SUPPORT….’
‘..so the very LEAST you owe me is a formal written diagnosis so that at the very likely chance that I’ll be somewhere else by the time you get your act together I’ll have something to present to a medical professional in a new borough, where hopefully they might take it and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!’
‘I’m so sorry but…’
‘Look I know it’s not you, but for God’s sake if you don’t know when it’s going to happen, be HONEST because every time you move the dates, I promise you, it’s like a kick to the stomach to someone like me, and y’know what? Not everyone is as outspoken as me, and let’s face it, the last thing you want is a suicide on your hands? Just saying!’
I don’t remember who hung up, but I do know that afterwards my hands were trembling with rage, but felt curiously released and revitalised. Aunty C (my counsellor) laughed when I told her.
‘Good for you! It’s great to that passion back! You are better off not relying on them, move forward, don’t hang around for them or you’ll be there forever!’
That was yesterday.
Today brought me back down to earth with a thunk.
Another service bill because they ‘under estimated’ last year’s. This is like some kind of conspiracy. How am I going to sell this place and afford somewhere near my friends now? I don’t know whether to explode again or sink into a sludgy puddle of lethargic, defeatist despair.
I swear if I counted Dr Manhattan amongst my close friends, i would happily volunteer to be ‘ink blotted’ right now, then I wouldn’t have to deal with all this shit anymore.
I wouldn’t even notice his fine physique, Billy C jawline or his huge blue willy wafting gently in night air.
Nope. Just splat me dude, then fuck off back to tinkering around on Mars, ta muchly.
I honestly don’t know what’s going to come down on me next, but at this rate, I’ll be homeless. I guess that’s when I’ll find out who my real friends are.
Look out for me sweeping up on my very own desolation row. I’ll be the one that ends up running riot with that broom in the direction of my local mental health facility.
Pray for me.