Here We Go Again

Yes, you do get angry sometimes.  It's only natural: it's the loss of control over large sections of your life.  You're only human, and sometimes you have to allow for that feeling.

Take today, for example.  I woke up early as usual, put on my computer and did a little bit of work before Julie woke up.  When she got up I went downstairs for a quick chat and I handed out her antidepressants.  We chatted as usual about how she had slept, and the day ahead.  She seemed OK, so I went back to my work upstairs.  Usually I try to go down every 45 minutes or so, and share some time with her; I have got into the habit of making a big bowl of milky coffee for the two of us mid-morning, and we sit and chat over it and enjoy watching the birds in the garden.  On two days we now have Rhiannon with us, and these are generally very happy days when I can relax a little.  Today unfortunately, was not a Rhiannon day.

(Warning: self-harm triggers ahead).

I had been back at my desk for about 20 minutes, I was arranging a phone call with my second-in-command at work, and just starting to seriously look forward to my morning coffee, when Julie came upstairs.  Her arm was all over blood, soaking her jumper.  She had cut again.  We didn't say much: she just handed over the blade and I asked her to try not to drip on the carpet.  I wasn't surprised: the spectre of her self-harming again had been hanging over us since late last week, and though I thought we might have got away with it because she seemed less bleak by the end of the weekend, I knew she was still at risk.

I did quite a good job of steri-stripping and cleaning up this time, though I say it myself, but once again the cut was too deep for my first-aid resources.  We took our time about leaving the house to go to A&E, but there wasn't enough time for our morning coffee. I missed that coffee more than anything else; hospital coffee is an insult by comparison.

I contacted my second-in-command to apologise: no meeting today.  It's impossible to describe how embarrassed you feel about cancelling meetings at short notice.  It's ridiculous because you know that getting your child medical aid is something beside which all other concerns look petty, but it happens so often that sympathy wears thin, and of course you never can explain anything about the circumstances.  British people just don't share that sort of personal information easily - but they do do embarrassment awfully well.  So all I could say is that there was a crisis - some nameless unexplained crisis - and email my boss to apologise for doing yet another disappearing act.

It was a quiet day in A&E.  We were seen and treated in less than three hours, and then had the great good fortune of being able to get in touch with her psychiatrist, Dr Clyde, and find that he had some time spare.  We spent part of the afternoon at his clinic talking the incident over with him.  We were fortunate that he was available, because the A&E staff had already talked to me about their safety concerns, and would not discharge her to anyone else.  I knew that if we had seen a duty psychiatrist that had never met her before, it might have taken no more than a brief exchange to send her straight back into hospital.

And Julie was so anxious to go to hospital!  It was heart-breaking, but despite the very real worry that she would do the same again or worse, Dr Clyde shared my opinion: hospital wouldn't help, and it might hinder. We don't need respite care at the moment, and being locked up again might just drive her mood further down and prolong the episode.  This is where I find it hard, because you know that even if she doesn't know it herself, Julie is trying everything she can at this moment to get back into hospital.  Whether it's the voices telling her she deserves to be punished, or just some deep primal instinct to drive things to their logical conclusion, the drive is there.  How can I ever convince her that, no matter what she does to herself, she is better making a life for herself outside the hospital?