I'm clammy. And hot, even though the air conditioner is on. I have a massive headache, though that's nothing new. Chest pains, can't breathe - you'd think I was having a heart attack, though we all know better.
And after hours of this...
I want to live. I want to travel. I want to play on the beach with my kids. I want to watch them grow up, and take care of them while they do. I want to tend my house, and play the 50's housewife while kicking the arse of anyone who tells me I should because I'm a woman. I want to play sport, and go on bushwalks, and climb rocks. I want to read books, and listen to music and write. I want to show my kids the world, even if it's just the world in our little town. I want to work and I want to play and I want to LIVE.
And I want to die. Right fucking now.
Hope is what gets us through. It is what we hold on to in desperation, when things get bad. Hope that tomorrow (figuratively speaking) will be better.
But my tomorrow won't be better. Indeed, my tomorrow is going to be worse. And the day after that, and the day after that. The things that concern me - the things that get me "down" - the things that I can't live with - they are all here to stay. It's no longer a case of hanging around until the solution dawns upon thee - but of having to choose - live like this, or die.
I don't think I ask too much. A little compassion. A little respect. Enough money for a roof over my head, food, health care. I live in one of the most prosperous countries on Earth, or I wouldn't be arrogant enough to ask for this much. Every day I have been able to, I've worked, and when I haven't been able to find employment, I've done volunteer work. I've done the best I can. I've been the best person I can. I've stuffed up sure, but I've always apologised. Made amends. Done the best I can.
I TRIED. I tried fuck it. It's not like I didn't bust my arse, trying to make it work.
I can't do this any more. Because deep down I'm still tortured by the past. One liners that speak to forgetting the past are crap - it's not memories that you have to worry about. It's the physical consequences. And anyone who doesn't know what they are should just shut the fuck up about it. Because one liners tend to lead to us feeling like crap for not being a fucking superhero and "getting over it".
I want life. Just not this one. Thanks, but this one is broken, and after 20ish years, I've realised that it just can't be repaired.. I'll be taking the refund. There are no exchanges here.
Showing posts with label Personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Personal. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
I paint...
Yes, I paint - badly. And not often. I suspect the two are related, though not necessarily. Perhaps I would suck even with practice.
In any event, I like to paint. It's relaxing, while at the same time, eventually, you get to accomplish something you can hold in your hand.
I have included pictures of two works in progress. I'm not sure what to do about either of them. The first one has an accident in the middle lol - and the second one is just - bleugh for now. I think it has potential, but it needs something more and I'm not sure what.
Actually the first one needs something more too, but I think that one is something I have to figure out for myself...
Having a hobby such as this is good for mental health. So is therapy. And not necessarily art therapy :-P That depends on the person!
Don't we all have the right to make the most of our lives? To be given the tools to make the most of our lives, even if illness strikes us down and lays us flat out in a field of emptiness? To have help, when we need it?
Monday, January 9, 2012
2011 Floods - our story
Here are a few before and after shots of the flood - just to give an idea of the visual we faced...
At the height of the flood, the water was a bit higher than these photo's suggest.
Gympie floods a lot. Having been born here, I know that. I knew that when we bought this house. I knew that it would flood, at least once, in the house, and I knew that we couldn't get insurance to cover for it. My story isn't remarkable - my story is not the point to this blog.
Given that Gympie had flooded a few times in the months leading up to January 2011, we "knew" it was coming. We just "knew" it. Although I've spent a fair whack of time living in Gympie, and my extended family has always lived here, I hadn't actually been in town for a big flood before this. So for each of these smaller floods, I kept asking my husband "do we move the office stuff upstairs yet?" His office was in a room downstairs, along with my desk and university stuff, and storage boxes. My husband kept laughing at me - "nup, not this time".
When he came to wake me up that Sunday morning it felt surreal - "Sweetie, it's time to pack up downstairs now".
Holy fuck!!! OK then.
So I got up, and we packed up. He dragged everything upstairs except for the big furniture - we piled that with the more expensive pieces sitting atop the crap - the forecast was that water would come in around a foot or so sometime Monday night. So the more expensive furniture should be safe. We'd lose the rest though. Chipboard doesn't fare too well in water.....
The boys toy room was now a storage room, and we had bookcases and books and boxes and computers and all sorts of shit just wherever we could put them.
During the day, I called the SES, to find out what we could do should the rain not stop, and we had to evacuate. The guy I talked to just kept asking if we needed a boat - no, we don't yet thanks, but what is the protocol for when we do? Are there any places we can stay? What help is available?
Turns out no help was available. We were on our own. We found out later that the council had set up an evacuation centre in town, but by the time we realised we needed one, it was too late - we couldn't get there.
There is a service station and a couple of motels up the hill from where we live. One of the motel managers came in while I was getting some milk Sunday night, and I asked if there were any rooms available. Sure, he said - how many of you are there? I told him there was myself, my husband and our two kids. He replied that he only had rooms with a double bed - no beds for the kids. No worries I said, I had some blow up mattresses. Nope, he said, regulations wouldn't allow that.
What the fuck????? My house looks like being flooded, we live on a sewage line with an access point in our backyard, so the water is going to be contaminated, I have two kids with immune issues, and you're saying no due to fucking regulations??? What are the regulations on sleeping in your car you fuckwit???
I walked home in tears, and rang the other motel - thankfully, not only did they have room, but the manager there said that we could bring our cats if it came to that!!! Thank goodness, because our kittens were also a worry for us.
So Monday, the kids and I packed up and went and stayed at the motel. The water was expected to peak during the night, and I wasn't about to go trampling through slush in the middle of the night with a five and just turned two year old.
While we were at the motel, I saw the news - and witnessed footage of Toowoomba, and heard the warnings for Grantham and Gatton. My husbands parents live in Gatton, and his sister at Grantham, so I raced home and started making phone calls. No one could get through to his sister, but his parents were safe and well. It was another day before we heard that his sister was OK. His other sister lives in Brisbane, and lost her house bar the shell. They are still rebuilding it now. They had insurance, but it was the wrong sort of flood.
I would have thought water was water - it's either wet or it's not - but there you go.
The water here was slow moving - there was no flash flooding. It didn't end up in the house - though the backyard flooded. My kids and pets were safe.
So I don't know why really, that I have flashback nightmares. Nightmares where it's flooded and my kids are on the other side of the water. Nightmares where the water is gushing, and I have to save my kids. I don't know why I'm having them. I don't know why when I go outside at night, I can see the reflection of the lights on the water - even though there's no water there any more. I don't know why.
And I can't imagine what the people who went through so much worse must be going through. People who lost every possession they own - and people who lost their entire families.
They lost their entire families.
I can't imagine.
My thoughts go out to them. My love goes out to them. Because I lied. Because I CAN imagine, but I choose not to. Because I don't want to. Because the nightmares are bad enough. I get that choice. I'm lucky. But my thoughts and my love goes out to them.
This tragedy is still going on. Today, and in the future, this still affects the people who went through it. Not me, other than the nightmares, because I'm lucky, but for so many others. They are still rebuilding. Still grieving. Some are still in shock even, that it happened at all. If you can, spare some love for these people. Don't forget them. Don't assume that it's over, and don't assume that you are no longer needed to help. They still need help. Some still need supplies. Others need someone to talk to. A few may just require some validation that what they went through was horrific.
Spare them a thought, some love, and some time. Tell them you care. If you can, offer to help. But please don't forget them. They need you.
At the height of the flood, the water was a bit higher than these photo's suggest.
Gympie floods a lot. Having been born here, I know that. I knew that when we bought this house. I knew that it would flood, at least once, in the house, and I knew that we couldn't get insurance to cover for it. My story isn't remarkable - my story is not the point to this blog.
Given that Gympie had flooded a few times in the months leading up to January 2011, we "knew" it was coming. We just "knew" it. Although I've spent a fair whack of time living in Gympie, and my extended family has always lived here, I hadn't actually been in town for a big flood before this. So for each of these smaller floods, I kept asking my husband "do we move the office stuff upstairs yet?" His office was in a room downstairs, along with my desk and university stuff, and storage boxes. My husband kept laughing at me - "nup, not this time".
When he came to wake me up that Sunday morning it felt surreal - "Sweetie, it's time to pack up downstairs now".
Holy fuck!!! OK then.
So I got up, and we packed up. He dragged everything upstairs except for the big furniture - we piled that with the more expensive pieces sitting atop the crap - the forecast was that water would come in around a foot or so sometime Monday night. So the more expensive furniture should be safe. We'd lose the rest though. Chipboard doesn't fare too well in water.....
The boys toy room was now a storage room, and we had bookcases and books and boxes and computers and all sorts of shit just wherever we could put them.
During the day, I called the SES, to find out what we could do should the rain not stop, and we had to evacuate. The guy I talked to just kept asking if we needed a boat - no, we don't yet thanks, but what is the protocol for when we do? Are there any places we can stay? What help is available?
Turns out no help was available. We were on our own. We found out later that the council had set up an evacuation centre in town, but by the time we realised we needed one, it was too late - we couldn't get there.
There is a service station and a couple of motels up the hill from where we live. One of the motel managers came in while I was getting some milk Sunday night, and I asked if there were any rooms available. Sure, he said - how many of you are there? I told him there was myself, my husband and our two kids. He replied that he only had rooms with a double bed - no beds for the kids. No worries I said, I had some blow up mattresses. Nope, he said, regulations wouldn't allow that.
What the fuck????? My house looks like being flooded, we live on a sewage line with an access point in our backyard, so the water is going to be contaminated, I have two kids with immune issues, and you're saying no due to fucking regulations??? What are the regulations on sleeping in your car you fuckwit???
I walked home in tears, and rang the other motel - thankfully, not only did they have room, but the manager there said that we could bring our cats if it came to that!!! Thank goodness, because our kittens were also a worry for us.
So Monday, the kids and I packed up and went and stayed at the motel. The water was expected to peak during the night, and I wasn't about to go trampling through slush in the middle of the night with a five and just turned two year old.
While we were at the motel, I saw the news - and witnessed footage of Toowoomba, and heard the warnings for Grantham and Gatton. My husbands parents live in Gatton, and his sister at Grantham, so I raced home and started making phone calls. No one could get through to his sister, but his parents were safe and well. It was another day before we heard that his sister was OK. His other sister lives in Brisbane, and lost her house bar the shell. They are still rebuilding it now. They had insurance, but it was the wrong sort of flood.
I would have thought water was water - it's either wet or it's not - but there you go.
The water here was slow moving - there was no flash flooding. It didn't end up in the house - though the backyard flooded. My kids and pets were safe.
So I don't know why really, that I have flashback nightmares. Nightmares where it's flooded and my kids are on the other side of the water. Nightmares where the water is gushing, and I have to save my kids. I don't know why I'm having them. I don't know why when I go outside at night, I can see the reflection of the lights on the water - even though there's no water there any more. I don't know why.
And I can't imagine what the people who went through so much worse must be going through. People who lost every possession they own - and people who lost their entire families.
They lost their entire families.
I can't imagine.
My thoughts go out to them. My love goes out to them. Because I lied. Because I CAN imagine, but I choose not to. Because I don't want to. Because the nightmares are bad enough. I get that choice. I'm lucky. But my thoughts and my love goes out to them.
This tragedy is still going on. Today, and in the future, this still affects the people who went through it. Not me, other than the nightmares, because I'm lucky, but for so many others. They are still rebuilding. Still grieving. Some are still in shock even, that it happened at all. If you can, spare some love for these people. Don't forget them. Don't assume that it's over, and don't assume that you are no longer needed to help. They still need help. Some still need supplies. Others need someone to talk to. A few may just require some validation that what they went through was horrific.
Spare them a thought, some love, and some time. Tell them you care. If you can, offer to help. But please don't forget them. They need you.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
ASD - stop trying to "fix" it!!!
I read an article today, submitted on Twitter by @angryozcripple (worth the follow, if you're a fellow tweeter), about a mother who had complaints of a beauty pageant awarding her daughter "Best Personality".
Yep, mum was pissed off that her daughter WON "Best Personality". Why? Because her daughter has Autism, so therefore...
Give me a fucking bucket!
What the FUCK is wrong with some parents??? My son has Aspergers (as does my husband), one of my closest friend's son has High Functioning Autism, and another friend's daughter has Autism. Three of the best kids I know. All have lovely personalities.
This type of thinking - that someone with Autism can't possibly have the greatest personality - leads to a more complex situation - that of parents who are trying to "fix" their children when they are diagnosed with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder). They send their kids to therapy for the sole purpose of "fixing" them.
And I want to slap them all, and explain in no uncertain terms, that you can not "fix" ASD. Like it or not, it is there, and it is there for life. It is a part of your child's identity. It is who they are. Trying to fix it is like trying to grow back a limb that was never there to begin with.
My son has therapy. He sees a psychologist, a speech therapist and an occupational therapist. They each work on different areas of need. We send him to therapy, not to fix him, but to teach him the skills that he is going to need in order to make the most of life in a society that is not equipped to deal with people with ASD. We are trying to give him the skills he needs. We are NOT trying to inherently "change" him into something he is not. He will never be "better" because there is no "cure".
That is because ASD is a part of who he is. And there is NOTHING fucking wrong with who he is!!! There is nothing fucking wrong with who this girl is either, obviously, and I hope one day her mother can see that.
Is parenting a child with ASD hard? Fucking oath!!! It's fucking exhausting, complicated, and frustrating. Some days it feels like my son and I don't speak the same language in a way that I can't adjust for - meaning that we never really speak the same language, but sometimes I can guess a few phrases and we get by. Other days - not so much. I get that some parents see a cure as the only way "out" or whatever.
On the other hand - there is a lot about parenting a child with ASD that is easier too. For starters, I never had to worry about safety with my son with ASD like I've had to with his accident-prone not afraid of anything brother. Tell my son with ASD that he can't go into that drawer, and he won't go into that drawer. And while he's never been big with cuddles and platitudes - he still loves with all his heart and soul. Of course, I could go on and on and on...
He is not his ASD - but ASD is a part of who he is. It is a part of our kids. Love it. Embrace it. And for fucks sake, stop trying to "fix" it. You're going to fail, and make them miserable while you're doing it. Therapy is a tool, not a cure.
There is nothing "wrong" with having ASD!!! And fuck anyone who thinks there is!!!
Yep, mum was pissed off that her daughter WON "Best Personality". Why? Because her daughter has Autism, so therefore...
Give me a fucking bucket!
What the FUCK is wrong with some parents??? My son has Aspergers (as does my husband), one of my closest friend's son has High Functioning Autism, and another friend's daughter has Autism. Three of the best kids I know. All have lovely personalities.
This type of thinking - that someone with Autism can't possibly have the greatest personality - leads to a more complex situation - that of parents who are trying to "fix" their children when they are diagnosed with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder). They send their kids to therapy for the sole purpose of "fixing" them.
And I want to slap them all, and explain in no uncertain terms, that you can not "fix" ASD. Like it or not, it is there, and it is there for life. It is a part of your child's identity. It is who they are. Trying to fix it is like trying to grow back a limb that was never there to begin with.
My son has therapy. He sees a psychologist, a speech therapist and an occupational therapist. They each work on different areas of need. We send him to therapy, not to fix him, but to teach him the skills that he is going to need in order to make the most of life in a society that is not equipped to deal with people with ASD. We are trying to give him the skills he needs. We are NOT trying to inherently "change" him into something he is not. He will never be "better" because there is no "cure".
That is because ASD is a part of who he is. And there is NOTHING fucking wrong with who he is!!! There is nothing fucking wrong with who this girl is either, obviously, and I hope one day her mother can see that.
Is parenting a child with ASD hard? Fucking oath!!! It's fucking exhausting, complicated, and frustrating. Some days it feels like my son and I don't speak the same language in a way that I can't adjust for - meaning that we never really speak the same language, but sometimes I can guess a few phrases and we get by. Other days - not so much. I get that some parents see a cure as the only way "out" or whatever.
On the other hand - there is a lot about parenting a child with ASD that is easier too. For starters, I never had to worry about safety with my son with ASD like I've had to with his accident-prone not afraid of anything brother. Tell my son with ASD that he can't go into that drawer, and he won't go into that drawer. And while he's never been big with cuddles and platitudes - he still loves with all his heart and soul. Of course, I could go on and on and on...
He is not his ASD - but ASD is a part of who he is. It is a part of our kids. Love it. Embrace it. And for fucks sake, stop trying to "fix" it. You're going to fail, and make them miserable while you're doing it. Therapy is a tool, not a cure.
There is nothing "wrong" with having ASD!!! And fuck anyone who thinks there is!!!
Monday, January 2, 2012
Meet Nicholas. He's six.
This is Nicholas.
He always liked being outside when he was a baby. But then he started to hate it!!! His parents didn't realise that this was a sign...
While he doesn't like to go outside much, he would do it more often if his mum didn't have a disability, or had someone to help out...
Nicky has only been to the beach three or four times, even though he only lives an hour away. He's often at home, not doing much. Not that he minds. Nicky has Aspergers and the beach, while fun, can also be scary at times. It's noisy and unpredictable - much like all "outside activities".
Home is safe, and generally quiet. However Nicky's mum thinks that he needs to get out more, and experience things in the real world too...
Nicholas has been seeing a psychologist to help him deal with his anxiety and teach him emotional regulation. Because he is so young, the once a fortnight sessions are too far apart. He doesn't really remember it on any sort of deeper level. And his mum, who has been really sick, is not much help.
He is a good kid, who always wants to do the right thing. It frustrates him when he doesn't understand the world around him, or when he can't control his emotions. He is gifted, and so needs to see a psychologist who has learned about both Aspergers and giftedness and can tell which of his behaviours are being triggered by which (as a lot of things can be signs of both).
Last year, he was eligible for 18 sessions with a psychologist. This year he is only allowed 10. His parents can not afford to pay for any more.
Every two weeks was ok, but not enough. Every five weeks is next to pointless.
This means more anxiety, more meltdowns, more anger... more of just about every negative emotion really...
The new services that are meant to take the place of Better Access are not suitable for Nicholas - they will not take him on, and even if they did - they will not have the expertise to deal with him, and will cause damage, rather than help.
He is a gifted child. For real - he has been tested. His mother worries that all that potential could get lost in a sea of anxiety and confusion if he doesn't get the help he needs.
Not to mention that his psychologist has been great with explaining to his parents what is going on with him and how to deal with it all, as well as being a support when it comes to advocating for Nicholas at school.
Nicholas isn't alone. There are thousands of children with Aspergers like him...
They all deserve the best chance we can give them don't you think? If only so that we help them gain the most from their unique spirit...
He always liked being outside when he was a baby. But then he started to hate it!!! His parents didn't realise that this was a sign...
He has a few people who love him, but most of them have moved away or passed on now... His family doesn't have much real life support or help...
While he doesn't like to go outside much, he would do it more often if his mum didn't have a disability, or had someone to help out...
Nicky has only been to the beach three or four times, even though he only lives an hour away. He's often at home, not doing much. Not that he minds. Nicky has Aspergers and the beach, while fun, can also be scary at times. It's noisy and unpredictable - much like all "outside activities".
Home is safe, and generally quiet. However Nicky's mum thinks that he needs to get out more, and experience things in the real world too...
Nicholas has been seeing a psychologist to help him deal with his anxiety and teach him emotional regulation. Because he is so young, the once a fortnight sessions are too far apart. He doesn't really remember it on any sort of deeper level. And his mum, who has been really sick, is not much help.
He is a good kid, who always wants to do the right thing. It frustrates him when he doesn't understand the world around him, or when he can't control his emotions. He is gifted, and so needs to see a psychologist who has learned about both Aspergers and giftedness and can tell which of his behaviours are being triggered by which (as a lot of things can be signs of both).
Last year, he was eligible for 18 sessions with a psychologist. This year he is only allowed 10. His parents can not afford to pay for any more.
Every two weeks was ok, but not enough. Every five weeks is next to pointless.
This means more anxiety, more meltdowns, more anger... more of just about every negative emotion really...
The new services that are meant to take the place of Better Access are not suitable for Nicholas - they will not take him on, and even if they did - they will not have the expertise to deal with him, and will cause damage, rather than help.
He is a gifted child. For real - he has been tested. His mother worries that all that potential could get lost in a sea of anxiety and confusion if he doesn't get the help he needs.
Not to mention that his psychologist has been great with explaining to his parents what is going on with him and how to deal with it all, as well as being a support when it comes to advocating for Nicholas at school.
Nicholas isn't alone. There are thousands of children with Aspergers like him...
They all deserve the best chance we can give them don't you think? If only so that we help them gain the most from their unique spirit...
Dear @Mark_Butler_MP Meet Nicholas. He's six. http://lindamadhatter.blogspot.com/2012/01/meet-nicholas-hes-six.html #betteraccess #asd #aspie #ruralmh #mentalhealth #31blogs No. 2
Sunday, January 1, 2012
31 Tweets to Mark Butler
Inspired by both @AlisonFairleigh in her challenge of 30 blogs in 30 days, and from hearing the song Shout To The Top by The Style Council on rage this evening (...um... perhaps this morning is more appropriate), I have decided to try a challenge of my own - 31 tweets to Mark Butler in 31 days.
You see, in February, Better Access will be discussed in parliament again. And I have to do something, however small, to try and convince Hon Butler of our "worth". At the moment, the government sees fit to put most of it's funding into youth inner-city and suburban mental health, fucking the rest of us. The rest of us being anyone who lives outside of these areas and anyone in any area over the age of 25. Thing is - I think that we're worth something. I am worth something. We are all worth something. We all have something to contribute to society, and quite frankly, what we can contribute is a shitload more than most people.
I heard Stephen Fry tonight discuss bipolar, and how if people with bipolar could flip a switch to stop their illness, most of them wouldn't do it, because the highs are worth the lows. Guess what? I don't have bipolar, but I feel the same. When I'm "well" (i.e. pretending), then everything is grey, and I just drone alone with everyone else. Having a mental illness can suck the very life from your soul, but on your good days - it offers a spectrum of colour that no other person gets to witness. The trick is finding a therapist that can stop you from killing yourself before you get a chance to find your own place in the world, where you can see the colour and handle the lows without being droolingly zonked out. The place where you can achieve greatness. Some are able to do it on their own, as history has shown. Some of us need help.
And regardless - isn't the sign of a great society one where each of it's citizens is granted help getting up when they fall down? And not just the token kind either smart arses - I mean actual help that helps!
Anyway - I think that we're worth the reinstatement of the cut Better Access sessions, and more besides, and I'm going to try and convince the Hon Butler of that.
My first tweet is going to be a link to this blog - where I've included the video and lyrics to the song "Shout To The Top" by The Style Council. It was written as a bit of a fuck you to Margaret Thatcher in the mid 80's, and while the topic isn't the same, the sentiment sure as hell is.
Shout To The Top by The Style Council
I was half in mind, I was half in need,
And as the rain came down
I dropped to my knees, and I prayed...
I said "oh Heavenly thing, please cleanse my soul,
I've seen all on offer and I'm not impressed at all".
I was halfway home, I was half insane,
And every shop window I looked in just looked the same
I said "now send me a sign to save my life
'Cause at this moment in time there is nothing certain
in these day's of mine".
Y'see it's a frightening thing when it dawns upon you
That I know as much as the day I was born and
Though I wasn't asked, I might as well stay and
Promise myself each and every day that
When you're knocked on your back, and your life's a flop
and when you're down on the bottom there's nothing else but
to shout to the top - shout!
We're gonna shout to the top - shout! (ad nauseum)
@Mark_Butler_MP Welcome to 2012 :) Apologies - seems I made it this far after all *big grin* ... enjoy... http://lindamadhatter.blogspot.com/2012/01/31-tweets-to-mark-butler.html
You see, in February, Better Access will be discussed in parliament again. And I have to do something, however small, to try and convince Hon Butler of our "worth". At the moment, the government sees fit to put most of it's funding into youth inner-city and suburban mental health, fucking the rest of us. The rest of us being anyone who lives outside of these areas and anyone in any area over the age of 25. Thing is - I think that we're worth something. I am worth something. We are all worth something. We all have something to contribute to society, and quite frankly, what we can contribute is a shitload more than most people.
I heard Stephen Fry tonight discuss bipolar, and how if people with bipolar could flip a switch to stop their illness, most of them wouldn't do it, because the highs are worth the lows. Guess what? I don't have bipolar, but I feel the same. When I'm "well" (i.e. pretending), then everything is grey, and I just drone alone with everyone else. Having a mental illness can suck the very life from your soul, but on your good days - it offers a spectrum of colour that no other person gets to witness. The trick is finding a therapist that can stop you from killing yourself before you get a chance to find your own place in the world, where you can see the colour and handle the lows without being droolingly zonked out. The place where you can achieve greatness. Some are able to do it on their own, as history has shown. Some of us need help.
And regardless - isn't the sign of a great society one where each of it's citizens is granted help getting up when they fall down? And not just the token kind either smart arses - I mean actual help that helps!
Anyway - I think that we're worth the reinstatement of the cut Better Access sessions, and more besides, and I'm going to try and convince the Hon Butler of that.
My first tweet is going to be a link to this blog - where I've included the video and lyrics to the song "Shout To The Top" by The Style Council. It was written as a bit of a fuck you to Margaret Thatcher in the mid 80's, and while the topic isn't the same, the sentiment sure as hell is.
Shout To The Top by The Style Council
I was half in mind, I was half in need,
And as the rain came down
I dropped to my knees, and I prayed...
I said "oh Heavenly thing, please cleanse my soul,
I've seen all on offer and I'm not impressed at all".
I was halfway home, I was half insane,
And every shop window I looked in just looked the same
I said "now send me a sign to save my life
'Cause at this moment in time there is nothing certain
in these day's of mine".
Y'see it's a frightening thing when it dawns upon you
That I know as much as the day I was born and
Though I wasn't asked, I might as well stay and
Promise myself each and every day that
When you're knocked on your back, and your life's a flop
and when you're down on the bottom there's nothing else but
to shout to the top - shout!
We're gonna shout to the top - shout! (ad nauseum)
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Two points - Better Access (1) and why self-injury isn't a suicide attempt (2)
I just looked up the phone number for my local public mental health service. The number is disconnected.
Finally found the right number. Woman on the other end seemed really nice. Apparently there is a team of five (not sure of the profession make-up of team), no GP referral needed, and when I asked about waiting times, I was informed that there wasn't too much of a wait, that they would get back to me pretty quickly.
It all sounds so good, and maybe I'd be lucky and they would actually put me on the books. Last time I tried, I got kicked out *shrug* - I wasn't "special" enough I guess. Maybe I'd be really lucky and find someone else who is an amazing trauma specialist. Time before last, there was a mixed bag between the very good and the fucking horrible. Maybe I'd be really lucky and get an appointment straight away.
So - why not call back? I mean, aside from the fact that people who have dealt with the system very recently, indicate that it is just as fucked up as it always was...
Because even assuming it's rosy as pictured by said receptionist (?) - I just can't fucking do it. Fifteen years of knowing I've had a mental illness. Twelve years of it being misdiagnosed. Three years of progress. I can't do that three years again - and that is assuming the experience is a good one (and there's certainly no guarantee's of that). I am fucking stuffed. I am tired beyond belief and I just want to sleep forever. I can't entertain the thought of - well anything much really - other than the bare minimum of what is needed to get through the day. And quite frankly, if it wasn't for my husband, the kids would have stayed home today. And yesterday. And possibly all of last week.
Thank goodness internet grocery shopping has finally hit our little town. Even if it is frightfully expensive.
There is no way in hell I can entertain the thought of going through those three years again with someone new, just to get to the same point that I'm at now. And what if they get transferred or choose to leave (which in the public system, is not out of the realms of possibility)? Then I have to go through it all again.
Fuck off.
"We'll send you here, we'll send you there..." - and all the while, we'll act like we're doing you a favour.
I had to hang up the phone before, because the very thought of starting over with someone else was making me nauseous. I would quite frankly, rather be dead.
All day, I have been trying to fight off this sense of impending doom. The doom being my creating my own end. Not that it would be all gloom of course - me being me, I have quite the plans... however that's not really the point... Over the course of the day, it has been gaining momentum, despite my efforts to tell it in no uncertain terms, to fuck off - until I reached the point where it was manifesting in a rather dramatic physical way - not quite full-on panic attack, but the "death by a thousand cuts" style of panic attack. The type that builds slowly - too slowly to even really notice at first - and lasts and lasts and lasts. This one has indeed been brewing for a few days.
The effects a short while ago? Couldn't breathe properly. Tightness of chest. Muscles tensed up. Thoughts alternating between "I want to die now" and "Fuck off you do, just wait it out". Thoughts which start off slow and get faster and faster until nothing else fits any more. You get to the point where you KNOW something has to give and you're scared it's going to be your life - and at the same time, you're pleased that at least it'll be over. Unlike the fast panic attacks, you know you can't wait the slow ones out - they have way more stamina than you do. So it ends up coming down to two choices - neither of which are pretty.
On this particular day, I have chosen to self-injure. Don't stress - it's not "bad" - just enough to do what I needed. Ever felt morphine wash over your body, or had a gallstone attack subside on its own - and gone from massive pain, to no pain in a few seconds - and felt that relief? That is what self-injury feels like when you're having one of these types of panic attacks. And you can feel free to judge me for that the day they make Epi-pens legal for people with a mental illness. Until then, some days, this is all we can do to keep from killing ourselves.
Of course, I'm not advocating self-injury as a coping mechanism. Indeed, I am a big fan of the Happy Box - details of which are listed below. However, some days... Anyway - the whole idea of blogging for me, aside from ripping it up people who need a good bitch slap, is to write about what it's like to live with a mental illness. This is what it is like for me.
I'm the first to say that if you want to emulate me, then you're next in line for a good bitch slap.
Update: Thanks to one lovely lady who e-mailed me earlier, a couple of good people on Twitter with laughs galore, the people waiting for me to nudge them (and thanks for understanding why I can't), and my husband and kids, who have to put up with me in the flesh.
The other ugly brain bitch isn't winning today. Fuck that shit. If only because I am one stubborn bitch who has much living to do yet.
The "Happy Box" is an idea founded by a group of people who self-injure, many years ago. I still have my first happy box, given to me by one the members of this group.
For people who self-injure, feel suicidal, or have a mental illness, the Happy Box is a box of things to keep one occupied until such time as they feel "safe" again, or can get some help. A Happy Box is personal to the person who it is for - what works for one person may not work for another.
If you are thinking of making a Happy Box, either for yourself or someone else, the following are some ideas of what to put in it - to get you started.
* Phone numbers of people to call in an emergency, or to talk to
* Favourite music
* Favourite book - it could be a novel, or a book of inspirational quotes or a colouring-in book
* Photo's of happy times, or of loved ones
* Art supplies - either standard art supplies for art, or some people who self-injure find it therapeutic to scribble red on something
* Worry dolls
* Crystals (if that's your thing)
* Small icons or figurines that are meaningful
* Journal and pens
* Things that smell nice - incense or perfume etc
* DVD of a favourite funny movie
* Rubber bands - some people who self-injure find that snapping a rubber band against their wrist can help relieve the pressure to self-injure
* Play-doh, Lego or other manipulative toys to keep hands and minds occupied
* Letters from loved ones (good ones)
* A voucher to the movies, or a favourite restaurant or ice-cream place
* Chocolate or lollies
* Candles
* Bath salts
Finally found the right number. Woman on the other end seemed really nice. Apparently there is a team of five (not sure of the profession make-up of team), no GP referral needed, and when I asked about waiting times, I was informed that there wasn't too much of a wait, that they would get back to me pretty quickly.
It all sounds so good, and maybe I'd be lucky and they would actually put me on the books. Last time I tried, I got kicked out *shrug* - I wasn't "special" enough I guess. Maybe I'd be really lucky and find someone else who is an amazing trauma specialist. Time before last, there was a mixed bag between the very good and the fucking horrible. Maybe I'd be really lucky and get an appointment straight away.
So - why not call back? I mean, aside from the fact that people who have dealt with the system very recently, indicate that it is just as fucked up as it always was...
Because even assuming it's rosy as pictured by said receptionist (?) - I just can't fucking do it. Fifteen years of knowing I've had a mental illness. Twelve years of it being misdiagnosed. Three years of progress. I can't do that three years again - and that is assuming the experience is a good one (and there's certainly no guarantee's of that). I am fucking stuffed. I am tired beyond belief and I just want to sleep forever. I can't entertain the thought of - well anything much really - other than the bare minimum of what is needed to get through the day. And quite frankly, if it wasn't for my husband, the kids would have stayed home today. And yesterday. And possibly all of last week.
Thank goodness internet grocery shopping has finally hit our little town. Even if it is frightfully expensive.
There is no way in hell I can entertain the thought of going through those three years again with someone new, just to get to the same point that I'm at now. And what if they get transferred or choose to leave (which in the public system, is not out of the realms of possibility)? Then I have to go through it all again.
Fuck off.
"We'll send you here, we'll send you there..." - and all the while, we'll act like we're doing you a favour.
I had to hang up the phone before, because the very thought of starting over with someone else was making me nauseous. I would quite frankly, rather be dead.
All day, I have been trying to fight off this sense of impending doom. The doom being my creating my own end. Not that it would be all gloom of course - me being me, I have quite the plans... however that's not really the point... Over the course of the day, it has been gaining momentum, despite my efforts to tell it in no uncertain terms, to fuck off - until I reached the point where it was manifesting in a rather dramatic physical way - not quite full-on panic attack, but the "death by a thousand cuts" style of panic attack. The type that builds slowly - too slowly to even really notice at first - and lasts and lasts and lasts. This one has indeed been brewing for a few days.
The effects a short while ago? Couldn't breathe properly. Tightness of chest. Muscles tensed up. Thoughts alternating between "I want to die now" and "Fuck off you do, just wait it out". Thoughts which start off slow and get faster and faster until nothing else fits any more. You get to the point where you KNOW something has to give and you're scared it's going to be your life - and at the same time, you're pleased that at least it'll be over. Unlike the fast panic attacks, you know you can't wait the slow ones out - they have way more stamina than you do. So it ends up coming down to two choices - neither of which are pretty.
On this particular day, I have chosen to self-injure. Don't stress - it's not "bad" - just enough to do what I needed. Ever felt morphine wash over your body, or had a gallstone attack subside on its own - and gone from massive pain, to no pain in a few seconds - and felt that relief? That is what self-injury feels like when you're having one of these types of panic attacks. And you can feel free to judge me for that the day they make Epi-pens legal for people with a mental illness. Until then, some days, this is all we can do to keep from killing ourselves.
Of course, I'm not advocating self-injury as a coping mechanism. Indeed, I am a big fan of the Happy Box - details of which are listed below. However, some days... Anyway - the whole idea of blogging for me, aside from ripping it up people who need a good bitch slap, is to write about what it's like to live with a mental illness. This is what it is like for me.
I'm the first to say that if you want to emulate me, then you're next in line for a good bitch slap.
Update: Thanks to one lovely lady who e-mailed me earlier, a couple of good people on Twitter with laughs galore, the people waiting for me to nudge them (and thanks for understanding why I can't), and my husband and kids, who have to put up with me in the flesh.
The other ugly brain bitch isn't winning today. Fuck that shit. If only because I am one stubborn bitch who has much living to do yet.
The "Happy Box" is an idea founded by a group of people who self-injure, many years ago. I still have my first happy box, given to me by one the members of this group.
For people who self-injure, feel suicidal, or have a mental illness, the Happy Box is a box of things to keep one occupied until such time as they feel "safe" again, or can get some help. A Happy Box is personal to the person who it is for - what works for one person may not work for another.
If you are thinking of making a Happy Box, either for yourself or someone else, the following are some ideas of what to put in it - to get you started.
* Phone numbers of people to call in an emergency, or to talk to
* Favourite music
* Favourite book - it could be a novel, or a book of inspirational quotes or a colouring-in book
* Photo's of happy times, or of loved ones
* Art supplies - either standard art supplies for art, or some people who self-injure find it therapeutic to scribble red on something
* Worry dolls
* Crystals (if that's your thing)
* Small icons or figurines that are meaningful
* Journal and pens
* Things that smell nice - incense or perfume etc
* DVD of a favourite funny movie
* Rubber bands - some people who self-injure find that snapping a rubber band against their wrist can help relieve the pressure to self-injure
* Play-doh, Lego or other manipulative toys to keep hands and minds occupied
* Letters from loved ones (good ones)
* A voucher to the movies, or a favourite restaurant or ice-cream place
* Chocolate or lollies
* Candles
* Bath salts
Friday, October 28, 2011
Calling a spade a fuckwit
Credit: No idea - it did the FaceBook rounds...
Given good quality and regular psychological care is now only within the realms of the rich, I have decided to try screaming obscenities.
Brace yourself.
I have been e-mailing politicians in order to enlighten them of my concerns to the cutting of the Better Access Initiative. Over the last couple of days, I have received mostly automatic replies, with a few "I've told my assistant to tell you I'll look into it"'s, and a couple of "you do not live in my electorate therefore bite me"'s. Fair enough - they are (god I hope) busy running the country and thus this was to be expected.
One reply however, pissed me off in a rather spectacular way, and not simply because it was a cut-and-paste disguised as an actual reply (I can Google people). What pissed me off was the content of the information itself, as well as the fact that it is being used in a formal capacity as the justification to screw the average person with a mental illness over.
I have included the e-mail, and addressed it, below:
Dear Ms Wemyss,
Senator Cameron has asked that I acknowledge your email of
25 October 2011 and thank you for raising your concerns regarding the Better
Access initiative.
While I'm sure Senator Cameron did not actually ask that Jessica reply to Linda's e-mail, but rather said something along the lines of "get onto those fucking e-mails too will ya - my inbox is getting full" - it is a nice personal touch.
The
2011-12 Budget provided a record investment of $2.2 billion over five years in new
and expanded mental health services. Included in this investment were
some changes to the Better Access initiative.
The government says "changes" - I say we got our fucking arses handed to us.
The Australian Government is
concerned that while Better Access is a good program for those it is reaching,
it is still not servicing hard to reach groups like young people, men, people
living in rural and remote regions, Indigenous Australians and people living in
areas of high socio‑economic disadvantage. In fact the evaluation showed
that people on lower incomes received both significantly less services and
funding under Better Access than those on higher incomes.
I'm on a low income (DSP). I live in a rural area. And to whoever thought to come up with this particular argument for taking away the one support I have - go fuck yourself.
If the system is working, but not reaching the "right" people (and I don't accept the premise that this is the case), then change the system to make it better - don't throw it away.
From 1 November 2011, the cap on Medicare rebates for
eligible people with a diagnosed mental disorder will be changed from 12
sessions per year to ten. Following the initial course of treatment (a
maximum of six sessions) consumers will be able to access more sessions of up
to ten. Consumers are also eligible for ten group sessions per calendar
year in addition to their individual sessions.
Bullshit. It is being cut from 18 to 10 sessions. My two year old is pretty good with his numbers, if the government would like some tutoring.
In making these changes the
Government has listened to mental health experts and examined the available
evidence, including the independent evaluation of
Better Access. After more than four years of operation, the
Government has a clear sense of how the program is being used by providers and
consumers.
Actually - in making these changes, the Government has listened only to those it has deemed "worthy". Many mental health experts have challenged the cuts.
Providers and consumers, in general, are pissed off at the cuts. I suggest to the government that given providers and consumers are the ones providing and consuming, we have a pretty good fucking sense of "how the program is being used". At this point, I really wouldn't assume that the Government has a "clear sense" of where to find it's dick, except that we're all being royally screwed.
The findings of the Better Access evaluation showed that
almost three-quarters of people who access services used between one and six
sessions a year. The majority (87 per cent) of current Better Access
users received between one and ten sessions and will therefore be unaffected by
this change.
Yes. Fuck the 13%. The 13% are I'm guessing, more likely to have complex needs and more likely to be suicidal. A fair whack of cancer patients don't go on to have chemotherapy - should we stop funding that too? And if the government thinks we're talking about talk-therapy vs. death, then I'd invite the government to go and meet the families and friends of the approx. 65000 Australians who try to kill themselves each year, and tell them that their loved ones aren't worthy of treatment. I don't suggest the government tell it to people trying to kill themselves. I think the government has given them enough to deal with for now.
People
currently receiving services under Better Access will be able to access up to
12 individual and/or up to 12 group sessions prior to 30 October
2011. In exceptional circumstances, and where there is a clinical need,
they can access an additional six individual services prior to 30 October 2011.
From 1
November 2011, the new arrangements will apply. Individuals who have already
accessed ten or more individual and ten or more group services by 1 November
2011 will not be eligible for additional services until 1 January 2012.
So they are left with nothing. Over Christmas of all fucking times of the year. Bravo.
The
Department of Health and Ageing is working on implementation arrangements and
further information will be made available to consumers and providers in the
near future.
What near future is that? I received this e-mail on the 27th October for fuck's sake - the cuts kick in this Tuesday. I'm guessing Jessica didn't proofread before she sent this e-mail. There has hardly been a mass advertising campaign - certainly NOTHING to the general public. Not surprising obviously.
The Better Access initiative was introduced to address low
treatment rates for high prevalence mental disorders such as depression and
anxiety – particularly presentations of mild to moderate severity where short
term evidence based support is most likely to be useful.
Short term evidence based support is MORE than 10 sessions.
While some people with more complex or intensive care needs
may benefit from psychological interventions under Better Access, the
initiative was not designed to provide intensive, ongoing therapy for people
with severe, ongoing illness.
And yet, it is working for that anyway. In any other area of medicine, this would be seen by all as a GOOD thing.
It is
important that people get the right care for their needs. People who
currently receive more than ten allied mental health services under Better
Access are likely to be patients with more complex needs and would be better
suited for referral to more appropriate mental health services. GPs can
continue to refer those people with more severe ongoing mental disorders to
Medicare subsidised consultant psychiatrist services, where 50 sessions can be
provided per year, or state/territory specialised mental health services.
Many people ARE getting the right care for their needs. Or they were at least.
If people wanted to see a psychiatrist - if they thought that would work for them - they would be doing it already. And probably are. Thus, the government is forcing people to see a specialist they do not want, or do not need - or just forcing them to go without altogether if they figure it's not worth their time to see someone they do not want or do not need. People with "complex needs" are still capable of deciding for themselves what works for them. For the very very few who are not, I'm sure their GP isn't sitting there going "well, I could refer to a psychiatrist because I think that would be more appropriate, but fuck it, I'll refer to a psychologist instead, just for shits and giggles".
The Government is also investing through this year’s
Budget, $549.8 million to provide coordinated and flexible funding for people
with severe mental illness and complex multi‑agency needs. This will
provide eligible individuals with a single point of contact,
a care facilitator, and will assist about 24,000 people and
their families.
Again with the telling people what they need. That aside - where is this funding? Where are these services? Who is this single point of contact that I might call this Tuesday? Might it not have been a good idea to set this shit up BEFORE taking away current services?
To help make psychiatrist services available in more areas,
from 1 July 2011 the Government is providing new Medicare rebates for video
psychiatrist consultations for patients living in regional, remote and outer
metropolitan areas. GPs, specialists and other health professionals will
be provided with financial incentives to help deliver these online services and
funding will also be provided to support training and supervision for health
professionals.
ROFL. Has the government ever tried to access the internet rurally? It's provided by satellite and coverage depends on the weather, the satellites, and I imagine some higher power's general mood at any given time. I can just imagine the conversations now... "Hello Dr. Quack, I'm feeling suicid... beep beep beep". Not to mention added complications such as ensuring privacy ("Yes you can talk to your doctor about how I'm beating the crap out of you, but I'll be standing behind the desk here where he can't see me" - it's every abusers wet dream), whether or not the person is computer literate (or literate in general), or even whether someone has access to a bloody computer at home (because doing therapy in a public library is really what we all wish for *rolleyes*).
Hey, it's a great idea to offer it as an option. But to take from a program that works in order to do so? Is the government fucking kidding me?
Also - taking money from psychologists and giving it to psychiatrists is like taking money from therapy and giving it to medication. Oh wait... that is exactly what it is doing. If only all mental illnesses could be cured with a few pills...
Credit: Picture - Steve Sneider (2011); Text - Ania Krysztofiak
Every
cent generated from the changes to Better Access is being redirected to double
the number of services targeted at vulnerable and hard to reach groups through
the Access to Allied Psychological Services (ATAPS) program, as well as
investing in additional services for early intervention youth services and
improving the coordination and accessibility of services for individuals with
severe mental illness.
ATAPS in my area gives you a maximum of 8 sessions per year. No choice of practitioner - not even a guarantee of seeing the same practitioner for each visit. I have done "see whoever is on shift at the time" and it nearly fucking killed me.
If a private psychologist gets a little mouthy, you can tell them to fuck off and find another one before it gets too bad - if a psychologist at ATAPS gets a little mouthy - you've got nothing. And if the government thinks for a moment that there are "complaint systems" in place - then I'd like to shove their arse into a public psych ward, and a week later tell me how well those work in real life.
I don't think ATAPS is working as well as the government thinks it is and/or they simply don't give a fuck.
The
Government does not take the decision to make changes to Medicare services
lightly, but given the tight fiscal environment it has a responsibility to
ensure that its investments are appropriately targeted to ensure maximum
value.
Maximum value? My psychologist is not a fucking commodity. Last night, she was the person who took me from "I've just lined up all the medication I have and was about to down it with a bottle of Jack Daniels except my husband came home earlier than expected" to "Fuck it, let's die another day". Next week, my only option is hospital. Let me tell the government about hospital.
A few years ago, the police picked me up at a park and took me to hospital. I was suicidal. There were no beds, so despite the fact that I just been made homeless earlier that evening, they let me go at 2am in the morning. The next day, my best friend, who had travelled three hours to come and get me, called the hospital to tell them I was still suicidal and should he bring me in? He was told "Call back when she's done something". When I've done something. I have to actually cut my wrists or swallow a bunch of pills before they'll even consider a pre-admission meeting. Now granted, experience has revealed that I'm bad at most things, and I can add trying to kill myself to that list, given I've tried and failed twice (three times if you count the first one, which was pretty doomed from the start). Next time, I'm not going to fail. Mainly because some emergency department doctors have given me such great advice on how to succeed next time. Seriously. "Next time go up, not across" was said to me as my wrists were being stitched. I took note for future reference.
THAT is my other option. And if the government thinks that is acceptable for me - let alone a child, teenager or young adult - then they are cunt of the fucking millennium. McGorry and Hickie, stand aside...
The
Government is also investing in a range of expanded mental health services,
including:
· doubling funding to
the ATAPS program delivered through Divisions of General Practice and Medicare
Locals into the future;
·
30 more youth friendly
headspace services;
·
16 new Early Psychosis
Prevention Intervention Centres; and
·
a doubling in the
number of Family Mental Health Services.
Wank, fucking wank.
More
information about these and a range of other initiatives can be found at www.health.gov.au/mentalhealth
I trust that this information is
of assistance.
Well, it did give me something to do today...
Yours sincerely
Jessica Xxx (because the poor woman is just doing her job)
On Behalf of
Senator Doug Cameron
Senator for New South Wales
And not one of these arguments addresses the fact that I've been seeing my psychologist for three years, AND I FUCKING WELL LIKE HER. After fifteen years or thereabouts, of seeing every quack under the sun, I found someone who knows what she is talking about, and is prepared to do more than just listen to me bitch about my previous fortnight. I trust her. And sometimes I may blush and do some deep breathing first, but I can tell her anything. I don't want or need a "team". I don't want or need a psychiatrist. I sure as shit don't want to do therapy online any more than I want to do pap smears online. ATAPS is simply Better Access without choice or continuity of care, so I don't want or need that either.
I would have had a hell of a lot more respect for the government if they had just stood up and said, "OK, we're in bed with McGorry and Hickie and have decided to fund their pet projects and have decided the rest of you can go and get fucked in order to fund it". It would have been clean. It would have been honest. Instead, on top of having therapy cut, we're continually trying to determine whether the government is truly deluded, or just plain evil.
At this point, I think I'll assume both, and henceforth refer to them as a collective bunch of fuckwits.
Further Blogs to read:
Pretty sure none of them swear ;-)
If I haven't listed your blog on Better Access, and you think that negligent of me, feel free to e-mail me at lindamadhatter@gmail.com and I'll add it for you.
If this article, or my general being, has distressed you, please feel free to call Lifeline on 13 11 14.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Dear Mr Hickie
First of all, you speak of "$2.2 billion to new programs". Let's be honest shall we? It is NOT for new programs, it is for the total mental health budget. And it is the total mental health budget for the next five years - a point that seems lost on some. It is not even the correct figure.
The total spend over the next five years is $1 463 300 000. $316 200 200 was already earmarked from previous budgets, so only $1 147 100 000 is actually new money. $1.1 billion is a far cry from $2.2 billion. I'm not even totally sure where the $2.2 billion figure comes from, other than political spin, because I can't find it anywhere. Even the government here, says the budget spend over the next five years is $1.5 billion. For now, I'll assume that they mean their Ten Year Road Map for mental health or something.
Aside from all this however, is the $580 500 000 that has been cut from Better Access. $580 million CUT from the budget. $580 million that people such as myself will now have to find.
Your article points out that the changes "will greatly increase the number of services provided and, most importantly, access for those with the least capacity to pay privately". I am on the Disability Support Pension, and as my carer, my husband is on the Carer's Payment. I consider us to be about the least capable of paying as you can get. Ideally, I need to see my psychologist every fortnight. Every week would be great, but I don't mind keeping it real. The current eighteen session cut off leaves me with eight fortnights to find the full fee myself. After the changes go through, I will have to find the money for sixteen full fees. Possibly twenty, depending on what the criteria is for the additional four sessions.
I have heard of all manner of other alternatives, and I can assure you that I have either tried them to no avail (medication, inpatient services), or been turned away (public mental health outpatient services). ATAPS is not an option as I don't know a GP who is eligible to refer, and other GP's here have totally closed their books to new patients.
Seeing my current psychologist is the first time I have felt "better". And that is about to be ripped away from me because I can't afford to pay the full fee privately. Your argument on behalf of those least able to pay makes no sense at all to the people who are actually living it.
In addition to this, I will have to come up with the same fees for my son, who has Asperger's and needs psychological appointments to help him learn how to regulate his emotions. As he was diagnosed after his sixth birthday, we are not eligible for funding from the Helping Children With Autism Package. This is on top of his speech therapy and occupational therapy - a total out of pocket of $285 a fortnight. We live rurally - there is no other alternative for him here and we are not in a position to move.
Let us step back for a moment, and suppose that these new services WILL cater to our needs. Our sessions run out on November 1st of this year. This mental health reform is a five year plan. At what stage in that five years is our local area going to see some new services that we can utilise? What are we to do in the meantime?
And let us not forget the issue of continuity of care shall we? I've been seeing my psychologist for three years. In that time, I've developed a physical disability. Most of our sessions to date have been dealing with issues that have arisen from that, thus, even after three years, my psychologist is still acquiring my history given I've led quite the eventful life. To change over to another service will mean all that time is lost - wasted - as I will have to start over with someone new.
The second point you raised was the issue of attacks on the evidence of the new approaches, and indeed, exactly what these new approaches consist of. Given that I am not a health care professional, I can not in good conscious debate that point in detail here. I will say however, that I have done enough tertiary study in statistical analysis to be highly sceptical of the studies I have read. The outright lies (such as $2.2 billion of new money), do not help your credibility either. Nor does the fact that yourself, and many of your cohorts, fail to disclose any potential conflicts of interest.
Your third point that "academic voices have expressed concern that expanding services to include early intervention will come at the expense of desperately under-developed services for those with chronic or persistent illness" and that "no such debate characterises similar advances in cancer or heart care" can be rebutted with a simple - in other areas of medicine, early intervention is added to advanced treatment. In the case of the last budget, funding was taken away from the only advanced treatment that some of us have available to us (Better Access).
The fourth and final argument you stated is that "a very peculiar commentary proposes that mental health academics should not engage with the broader public debate". From what I've seen, there seems to be more of a concern that some of those academics have their own agenda's to push at the detriment of consumers; and that consumers themselves need to consulted as well (which is not happening effectively), as they know best what works for them. And usually what works best for us is choice, because we are all individuals and we all need different things, even if our "diagnoses" are the same.
Your final statement that "those governments (including NSW) that are making genuine attempts to develop a mental health system of which we can all be proud need the public's support" is truly a laugh. If the current developments were indeed "genuine", I imagine there wouldn't be such opposition to them.
And so Mr Hickie - your arguments may work at your dinner parties with friends - but down here in the dirt where we struggle every day living this nightmare - your arguments simply smell like bullshit.
Note: In order to keep this blog relatively small enough to read in one sitting, I have left out quite a few finer points - and there are many many finer points. Please don't think that they have escaped me. I simply wanted to keep this as an overview rebuttal of the article Mr Hickie wrote.
Figures from the 2011-2012 budget.
Budget
Delivering National Mental Health Reform
| Total funding | Old funding | New funding | |
| Leadership in mental health reform | $64,100,000.00 | $64,100,000.00 | |
| Coordinated care and flexible funding for people with severe and persistant mental illness | $549,900,000.00 | $206,100,000.00 | $343,800,000.00 |
| National Mental Health Commission | $32,000,000.00 | $19,800,000.00 | $12,200,000.00 |
| Mental Health Online Portal | $14,400,000.00 | $14,400,000.00 | |
| ATAPS | $205,900,000.00 | $205,900,000.00 | |
| Support for day to day living in the community program | $19,300,000.00 | $19,300,000.00 | |
| Expansion youth mental health - headspace | $197,300,000.00 | $197,300,000.00 | |
| Health and well being checks for three year olds | $11,000,000.00 | $11,000,000.00 | |
| National partnership agreement on mental health | $201,300,000.00 | $201,300,000.00 | |
| Research funding | $26,200,000.00 | $26,200,000.00 | |
| Family mental health support services | $61,000,000.00 | $61,000,000.00 | |
| Employment services | $2,400,000.00 | $2,400,000.00 | |
| Four mental health infrastructure projects | $78,500,000.00 | $78,500,000.00 | |
| $1,463,300,000.00 | $316,200,000.00 | $1,147,100,000.00 | |
| Better Access Initiative - rationalisation of allied health treatment sessions | -$174,600,000.00 | ||
| Better Access Initiative - rationalisation of GP mental health services | -$405,900,000.00 | ||
| -$580,500,000.00 | |||
Sunday, September 18, 2011
A Day In The Life Of The Suicidal - Governments take note.
Or not. Your choice.
I really hate it when people tell me not to read depressing things when I'm suicidal or upset. Like something that someone else is going through is going to set me off. Because obviously having a mental illness equates to having absolutely no free will whatsoever. There may be people out there who need a babysitter when it comes to literary choices, but I reckon they're a lot fewer than people think. Reading the crap that other people go through actually makes it better - more normal and less lonely.
Wow. A whole big paragraph and I haven't sworn yet. That's gotta be some kind of fucking record.
:-)
So, in case you haven't guessed, I'm not having the best of days. Screw that. I'm suicidal, no two ways about it.
I have body spasms. Every second, or every minute, or every hour, depending on my level of thought at the time. The more I think, the harder and faster they come. The bad thing about them is that they scare the kids, they jolt my already painful joints so they hurt like a bitch, and they're just plain annoying. The good thing about them is that for a few seconds, they release the tension in my body.
Downstairs, I have an art centre. An easel my husband made for me and an old set of drawers with paints and brushes and what-not in them. It's nothing much, but it's perfect. The only thing that is missing is some decent music, because I haven't got around to doing that yet. An hour ago, my husband tried to convince me to do some art, to see if that would help.
Husband: Why don't you go downstairs and do some artwork?
Me: (thinking about all the prep I'd have to do first - jerk - my body, not my husband). Yeah, maybe not.
Just thinking about putting the effort into something sets me off. Which is annoying as all hell, because my brain is raring to go. I want to do art, I want to sing, I want to go for a drive, I want to go for a swim, I want to take the kids to the park. And when I think about doing these things, I end up a jerking mess.
Thankfully, this is typed, or else you wouldn't be able to read it.
I feel sick. Every time I get up I feel like I'm going to throw up. I'm light headed. Every ounce of my body is screaming at me to get back into bed.
Between the jerks/spasms, and the inability to actually get up off my arse and do something, I feel pretty damn useless. Yes, logically I know I'm not. But being suicidal isn't about logic.
I've been fighting my whole 33 years. Fighting my mother. Fighting my abusive boyfriend. Fighting depression and PTSD. Fighting physical pain.
Enough already. I'm done. My body is done. I need a rest.
No one can take my physical pain away. I have Ehlers Danlos Syndrome and that is that. As for the emotional/mental pain... well...
We're bombarded with messages that if we feel suicidal, then we should call Lifeline, or some other call centre. But seriously - what are they going to do? What can they tell me that I haven't already considered? Is there some great big solution to everything out there that I haven't thought about? No, there isn't. The only way to get through this, if I decide to, is to grit my teeth and wait it out as best I can.
I'm not a beginner here. I've learned my meditation, and know to snap a rubber band against my wrist instead of cutting, and I've got "forget the next day - just get through the next hour, or the next minute" down pat. There are great big lists of things to do in an emergency, and they are fantastic. It's just - they don't work any more for me. Or at least, they don't work all the time. And I don't need to hear someone tell me something I already know like I either don't already know it, or like I'm just not trying hard enough. I don't need someone who doesn't know me trying to tell me how to pick myself up. It's not like my cat died, or my boyfriend broke up with me.
I know that it's politically incorrect to say that one person's pain is "more" than another's. I'm actually not trying to say that. If anything, the pain of a teenager who has just had their heart broken is far worse than what I am experiencing, which is not really pain so much as it's exhaustion. Maybe that is why the standard shit doesn't work.
Once it becomes clear to call centre volunteers that my situation isn't going to be resolved with the therapy equivalent of a Hallmark card, they usually suggest presenting at hospital. The last time I presented at hospital voluntarily for being suicidal, I was told that they weren't a babysitting service.
If I want someone to make me feel like shit under their shoe, I'll go visit my mother.
Plus, I want to see how Nikita turns out on Tuesday night. So I'm good till Wednesday at least.
I have a bunch of ideas of how we can improve the mental health system. Ideas that include everyone, because they assume nothing. What we have now is a stock standard answer:
* Call someone (great but what if it doesn't work? What if you require more than a chat with a stranger?)
* Go to hospital (safe, but boring, not good for getting someone in the "life is great" mood, and there's rarely enough beds anyway).
* See a psychiatrist (few of whom do therapy. Most simply give a diagnosis and dispense medication, and few people can afford the gap fees anyway).
* Go to the public mental health team etc (ATAPS, CAT etc) (these are underfunded or mismanaged to the point that they only take psychosis cases. There is little to no ongoing therapy for anyone else, and after I found out that my local team put a 10 year old on enough medication to kill a horse - no thanks).
Or
* See your psychologist. Except the government has just cut the number of Medicare rebatable sessions from 18 to 10.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Even with 18 this year, I've only two left. She's great and all, but two sessions in three and a half months when I'm this suicidal is like trying to get a hurricane to reverse itself by blowing at it. Next year I'll be allowed ten sessions. May as well just let the fucking hurricane come by and sweep me up. Use my energy to enjoy the ride, rather than try to fight the inevitable. Leave her time to treat those who actually have a chance.
There are a lot of people at the moment speaking of their concern for people with a mental illness. If they were so fucking concerned, they would be asking us what we need, instead of sprouting their own shit with a few token "consumers" here and there on their committees just to make it look good. I don't want to hear from the people who have been saved by the current system so that Assholes (the capital A was intentional) like Patrick McGorry and Ian Hickie can get funding for their little pet projects. I don't want to hear from the government who decides to put money into these projects, and pulls it out of other things that work so that they can (and in doing so, completely ignoring the over 25 year old demographic).
I want to hear from the people like me. The ones who have been there and done that and have a fire to make some real changes. People like me that know ANY committee that isn't comprised of consumers with at least a decade of experience in attempting to get well and being shit on, simply isn't going to get the job done properly.
I want to hear the fucking truth already. Because I simply don't have the RAM left in my addled brain, to be arsed hearing anything else. I want something that actually has a chance in hell of working to be considered for a change. I want hope, so that I can consider living for tomorrow.
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