Twisted in the head

Last Friday I had an interview with an independent medical service to determine whether or not I was still screwed up in the head enough to continue getting my incapacity benefit. I was terrified. I had one of these interviews a few years ago and they decided that since I'd made it to the interview, and was dressed and coherent, then obviously I was fine and shouldn't get any benefit. I appealed, but it took nearly eight months to get an appeal meeting during which time I was living on baked beans and pasta, and selling my possessions on eBay to get by. I could have tried to get a job, but there are very few jobs I can do without being driven insane. Not to mention the fact that it's the pressure of HAVING to do the job to live that makes me tip over.

Anyway, after cancelling the interview once, I finally showed up at Festival Park, after having left the house three hours early (6am) because that was when I felt I could do it and if I'd left it any later I wouldn't have gone in. I was so very scared. I had a minor panic attack in the waiting room. But the nurse I spoke to was very nice. She was very understanding and I ended up telling her things I haven't told my doctor. Then I burst into tears. The nurse gave me a quick hug and told me that I really needed to tell my doctor everything.

See, now this is very logical to me. If I was someone else reading this I'd be screaming at me, not understanding why I haven't already told the doctor. I don't even know why I haven't, but I haven't. There's lots I haven't told him about. It doesn't help that my doctor is an insensitive abrupt twat, but I think I've finally reached the point where I need to come completely clean with him. The nurse thinks I'm not on the right dosage of my medication, and that I desperately need therapy. She's probably right on both counts. I know she's right about the therapy, but more about that in a minute.

Tomorrow I'm going to see my doctor, in theory, and tell him everything. EVERYTHING. Things I haven't even told my best friends. Which is incredibly scary. C suggested I write a letter tonight and hand that to the doctor, which is what I'll probably do. If I manage to drag myself to the appointment I know I need, I'll probably invent some minor excuse and not tell him anything. So, once I've done this I'm going to write out a nice letter for my insensitive abrupt twat of a doctor and hope he puts my dose up.

As far as the therapy goes, I have the same problem with that as with other doctor and dentist appointment. I know I need to go. I know things will get worse if I don't go. But I can't. I make appointments, but I cancel them. I find excuses to not go. I deliberately don't show up and don't give them warning so they won't have me back. Why do you think the dental work I had done earlier this year was so drastic? Because I left it so late to sort out. Those problems started years ago. If I'd gotten them seen to right away I'd probably have a full mouth of teeth right now and wouldn't have had to to go through that. I knew it was going to end up with horror, but I couldn't force myself to go. It's the same with the counselling. I know that I'm never going to get better if I don't go, and I know I'll probably end up alone at 45 and overdose and get gnawed to a skeleton by my fifty cats. But I can't go. I've been before. I've had various meetings with counsellors and therapists. Including the one at Keele. I go to the initial meeting, come out feeling a million times worse and refuse to go back. I make second appointments, but never stick to them. I can't do it.

However, while I'm in Maine I have to pay an $80 health fee to cover me for the university surgery while I'm there. This fee includes 12 visits to the counselling service. Since I'll be paying for it, and since it's in a neutral place, I'm planning on taking advantage and having my counselling there. If I even make it to Maine, but that's my next post.