I don’t fit into the system

I’m back at work and to be honest returning wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I’m on reduced hours for a couple of weeks which is making things easier and I’m lucky enough to work with a very supportive team. Which also makes things easier.

Hiding my mental health issues isn’t something I have to worry about. And I’m very aware of how lucky I am with that. Others aren’t so lucky and face discrimination from their colleagues and management. My manager may have difficulties in ‘getting’ mental health issues but he’s supportive and willing to make any changes as they are needed.

But I do face discrimination and stigma in accessing support within the local mental health team.

I trundled up to an appointment with my psychiatrist today and we ended up agreeing that I don’t really fit in anywhere.

I’m not unwell enough to need full on support from the Community Mental Health Team with a need for a Community Psychiatric Nurse, with Care Plan Approaches and the like.

But the local low to moderate team won’t take me on board simply because of my diagnosis.

They have a blanket no Borderline Personality Disorder policy.

We’re too difficult.

We’re too manipulative.

We’re too unstable.

We never get better and learn to manage our symptoms.

We’re just not worth the hassle.

But that’s not true.

In both my personal and (ex) professional opinion.

Many moons ago I was told I was high functioning BPD. That yes I had difficulties but that I had learnt enough skills and managed at a level where holding down a job wasn’t an issue, that parenting, partners and relationships were all stable, that self-harming behaviours were none to minimal. And that’s still the case.

So I’m at a bit of a loss as to why I am restricted from accessing services that could help me get over this blip.

I struggle to think of other health areas where people with a specific diagnosis are told they are too hard to treat so they just can’t come in. But I suspect that a discrimination rant is a post for another day.

The question is where does it leave me now.

Medication. Which is absolutely fine and a very good safety net for me at the moment.

A supportive psychiatrist.

An ok-ish GP (I’ve certainly had a hell of a lot worse).

Two of the best friends a girl could ask for and who I can tell anything to.

A supportive husband.

Family who don’t judge me.

Colleagues who are prepared to cut me some slack when I need it.

A whole range of coping techniques learnt over the years.

And a stubborn determination to ride the wave and settle down in calmer waters soon.

I’d like to think that was enough for now.

Stepping back and fear of stepping back in

I’ve taken this week off sick from work.

It’s the first time in a very long time that my mental health has affected my work but needs must. I have Borderline Personality Disorder, with other diagnoses thrown in for good measure over the years. But, as much as I resisted at first, I’ve come to accept that BPD is the right one.

I had been stable for over 10 years. Med free and using coping techniques when necessary. That changed last summer when life stresses got too much and I had to go back on medication. Since last January it’s been 18 months of pure stress and it’s finally brought me to this point.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good thing in many ways. I recognised the need to take time off. I acted on it sensibly, speaking to my manager and actively telling him the need for some time out rather than calling in sick with some mysterious virus. I’ve tried to use the time productively; relaxing and making steps to sort out external stressors.

At the back of mind it niggles that this is the step onto the slippery path of not being able to work. I panic that my new role is too much, that I’m not as effective as I could be and that I shouldn’t have accepted a promotion. I worry that my mental health is going to spiral and one week off sick will turn into a month or more. I don’t miss work. I like being at home where it’s safe and pressure is limited.

But I also know that working is good for me. I enjoy the interaction. I know when I’m well being unchallenged is not the best option for me. I know that if neither Alex or I were working it would have a negative impact, and not just financially. It does me good to interact with a wider range of people, to have responsibility and things to focus on. I take pride in my work and being part of a team.

Work had become a scary place though. I was scared of making a mistake, had begun losing track of my projects, worried about making phone calls. I was also aware that I was spending so much energy just trying to appear normal between 9 and 5 that by the time I got home I had nothing else left in me. All I could do was crawl into my pj’s and slump on the sofa until it was time for a very early bedtime.

I had no energy to tackle the other things that needed doing – catching up on the washing, tackling our debts, filling in forms to get help with finances. It was all running away from me and I was left sleeping my time away because I couldn’t face anything else. Ostrich style was the name of the game.

It’s now Wednesday and although the panic and anxiety is still there I have been able to rest. I have been able to do chores around the house (not that Alex doesn’t help but he is limited with what he can do at the moment) and I’ve even tackled the scary form and filled in most of it.

It’s not that I dread going back next week, I don’t. But at the moment I feel safer than I have done in a long time.

And it’s hard to step back in.

Aftermath

It’s just over a week and a half on from Alex’s relapse and we’re in a funny place.

He hasn’t used since then.

The majority of life has returned to some form of normality, it has to when you have a six year old and a job to get to.

But a lot of damage has been done and there are still words left unspoken.

Alex is trying his best to show me that it was a one off and I’m not mistaken with choosing to try one more time.

I’m trying to deal with my anger and slowly break down the wall that I’ve put up between us. It will take time though and it’s not something that’s going to happen overnight.

Being the partner of an addict is hard work. It’s often about not completely letting your guard down and accepting that if they’re going to relapse they will, there’s very little you can do about it. It’s not your responsibility, that’s only down to them. But that doesn’t stop it from feeling like a punch in the gut when they do.

I think I was naive. Alex had been clean for so long and most relapses happen in the first few months and it hadn’t happened. Perhaps I thought it wouldn’t? But I’ve known and worked with enough addicts to know that relapse can happen at any time, no matter how long the sober period. Knowing it professionally and living it with your husband are two completely different things though.

I’ve been mulling over what needs to happen next. It’s clear that Alex needs more support than just his CPN, he’s made contact with the local drug and alcohol service. He’s tried them before but there’s always the chance that things will be different this time.He needs to look at his recovery differently too, make some actual changes rather staying in a safe bubble that pops every now and then. He needs to expand his world, with tiny baby steps as that’s a terrifying prospect for him but I don’t see how else life actually changes.

Or is that me trying to control the situation?

I need support. Not just from my two wonderful best friends, but support from people who know what it’s actually like. The only thing local to us is one Al-Anon meeting a week (the serious downside of rural living) but it’s got to be worth a try. I’m hoping writing this helps too, writing out my feelings, being honest about the functional dysfunction that comes from a marriage of addiction and mental health issues. I need to expand my world too, take more chances, not be so scared and accept that I can’t force Alex to do things or not do things.

But first I need to remember it’s not even been two weeks.

We need time.

Relapse

Alex had been clean and sober since the 6th January 2015.

He relapsed on the 26th May 2016.

506 days clean, changed just like that.

1 year, 4 months and 20 days and he made a decision to use again.

He phoned me at work to tell me he had taken money from the bank account, bought weed and wanted me to join him “for a good Bank Holiday weekend! We deserve it!”

My first reaction was that it came totally out of the blue. But looking back the warning signs had been there, I’d just been so caught up in other issues that I hadn’t spotted them. Being prescribed strong cocodamol tablets by the GP for a non-existent back injury, blagging a repeat prescription two weeks later claiming he had lost them, and then coming up with various reasons as to why he should buy the strongest over the counter painkillers he could.

This is the nature of addiction.

And of relapse.

There’s always something behind it and this time I think it’s a combination of my mother being diagnosed with cancer and him not really working recovery.

It’s so easy to slip back into old habits. Old coping techniques. Old ways of thinking and behaving.

Even when you know logically they don’t work.

There is no logic in addiction.

Alex spent most of the weekend asleep; avoiding reality and responsibility. I spent most of the weekend thinking and planning and trying to keep things as normal as possible for Poppy; completing her half term homework (there’s something very soothing about cutting and sticking), watching Disney films and a trip to the shop for Shopkins cards.

The whole time I was chattering inanely with a six year old I was swinging between despair, anger and a numbness that put me on auto-pilot. I remembered a lot of bad times from over the last seven years, times when our lives had been ruled by frustration and anger and a whole heap of one sidedness.

But there were good times too, fun times, loving times and glimpses of how things could be if we could just get things to work properly. If Alex could figure out how to live with his demons, and me with mine.

Talking after relapse is hard, barriers and defenses are up which never aids communication. He wants to move on, I want to explore things but one thing is clear. One more chance to work recovery. One more time to support him and try to help him through. And if not, then I’m done. I’m done for me and for Poppy but I can walk away knowing I’ve tried everything I possibly can.