My CPN (Community Psychiatric Nurse) has just rang to tell me my new Psychiatrist – 3rd in a little over a year – is not a man. That is good news. I don’t like men. Not in a ‘I just don’t like them because they irritate me,’ kind of a way, but in a ‘He has to have someone in the room with him,’ sort of drama. This extra care is due to my angry outbursts and the things my Psychotherapist has told him I tell her in private. It’s how the system works and I’m ok with it. This way everyone, including myself, are safe from injury or heavy jail sentences. In truth, if the wrong things are said I could very well be threatening in a small room with me between an over-picky male Psychiatrist and the door. No sense of safety when you have to come through me to escape. None at all.
But it’s all ok.
I just came in from picking up my meds then on the way back I watched a line of cars stop on the road, drive carefully around an old lady who had fallen on the tarmac, and carry on their journeys. She needed help, laying struggling, then still. Two office workers were helping her but she was just an irritation to the drivers passing wide, glaring. No help in any eyes that I could see. Not even sympathy.
I’m beginning to crash now from the manic bit that has plagued me for the last twenty four hours. It’s been a midly fast ride this time. No self harm though, which is good. Not even the thoughts of my neighbours drilling into my walls to listen to me watching pornography, or speaking to myself. No special reasons to be angry, or frightened. Just lots of cleaning and moving furniture and writing crazy half-truths and rabid discourse on Donald Trump. I hate him more than my neighbours, but they are within easy reach and he is three thousand miles away behind a wall of gung-ho security men. Things are as they are for a reason.