I’m really starting to develop a bad taste in my mouth when I think of the Crisis Team (CT).
The first time I met them they came to the house and did an assessment on me. They asked me if I was going to attempt suicide. I told them 50/50. They gave me a leaflet and left. Funnily enough it was only about 10 days later I made a suicide attempt. Hmmm if only we could have seen that coming…
Next time I met them was when I was in hospital. I had to be seen by them and assessed before I could be discharged in case I was going to try suicide again. I had no intentions of trying again so that meeting was easy.
Then a few weeks ago when I felt very unsafe I rang the CT out of hours. The person I spoke was very nice. She was patient and encouraging and actually seemed to want to listen to me. As I was safe for the rest of the evening she passed my details to the CMHT for a callback the next day which was a waste of time (Have you tried knitting? Are you fucking serious? Oh you are. Right. Yeah. Ok.)
Then I met a CT worker with nurse Nora last week because Nora was pretty worried about my behaviour. The CT worker looked nervous, terrified in fact. She said very little. She reminded me of the kids I teach actually – out of her depth. She tried to hand me the leaflet and I politely declined. She told me someone would come visit me at home the next day. They didn’t.
The day after that I did see the CT again. This time I was summoned to the mental hospital by a CT doctor (oooh! The doctor! It must be serious!). That meeting went so well that I sat on the bench outside the hospital crying my eyes out at the hopelessness of my situation afterwards. The meeting with her had escalated my danger level to critical but I couldn’t ring the CT as it was speaking to them that had caused it.
The CT Dr had said that someone would call the next day. They didn’t.
The following day a CT worker did visit. It was so frustrating; to the point that I felt my bones had been replaced with buzzing electrical wires charged full of irritation. We spoke about managing the children over the summer holidays. I was honest and admitted that it would be challenging but that we (husband and I) had a plan. I showed her the beginnings of the organisation chart which included childcare, holiday clubs, husband’s time off and help from family. The CT lady offered external help via social services. I declined saying that we could manage which was true.
Imagine my surprise today when social services ring me about the referral from the CT. What the fuck? Anyway the social worker had very poor English. She seemed to understand words but not whole sentences. For example when she asks what medication I’m on I tell her that I’m not on antidepressants because the psychiatrist said they won’t work for me. So she notes down that I am on antidepressants. Somehow she gets the idea that my inlaws are living with us. How? Am I so unclear? But I don’t correct her because again I am so angry and I don’t want to lose it at this woman who seems to have her own, entirely fictional narrative on my situation. She tells me she’ll have to open an enquiry. Fine, I think, she can find out all by herself how wrong she’s got it. Afterwards I begin to panic. She’s going to ring the CT and the Drs. Well, I’ve nothing to hide. Then I realise that she may talk to them about all the stuff that is, frankly, crap. They’ll assume that I’m lying, not that she’s wrong. Oh fuck. So now I have all this social services crap to correct which is all due to the CT.
Tonight I will ring the CT and discuss this farce; I’ll try and get some record taken of the truth. Fine, fuck about with me but not my kids.
Thanks for the help guys! You’re absolutely top notch at crises: causing, obviously.