So, Therapy, pt 2

The GP referral was fast. I had my  IAPT assessment this morning. I met an amazing woman who I will call Jill, who listened to my shit for 50 minutes and then gets to go away and sort out what kind of help I need and how best to deliver it. Good luck with that. She was wonderful though. I felt completely safe and cared for, and she understood every little horrid thing that I have rattling round in my offensive, loud, obsessive head. She made me feel less insane, more real, and that my stuff is important. I walked out after 50 minutes of crying and vomiting up all the mess that I’m carrying round and I found myself humming. I was singing and I felt lighter.  I went in there this morning feeling hopeless and stupid and weak and frightened and I came out feeling brave and tall and so very positive. If I can just try and access that memory of feeling confident and brave then I can manage this. It’ll be a wait for the help, but I think I can do it. I am sure that I can beat this new round of crazy. Or if not beat it, live well with it. That’s the key. Living a good-enough life in spite of the symptoms. I might always be obsessive/compulsive. I might always have anxiety and panic. I might never get out of this pattern of high and low but if I can be happy and manage the thoughts and behaviours so that my life is good anyway that’ll be wonderful. I think it is possible. After today, after talking to Jill and hearing her clearly and kindly and confidently tell me that I AM NOT MAD and that I am ok, I think it is possible.

What saddens me is that access to this quality of care is not easy. I wish it was available to everyone, but I know from bitter experience that it is not. It should be. Because it is life-saving. Over the last 20 years I have seen eight different therapists, three of them for long term treatment. Getting the right person is essential and it is so difficult to do. I have been lucky on those three occasions and I hope I’m going to be lucky again. I have had appalling treatment too, and I think maybe I’ll write another time about the pitfalls of therapy, how to get yourself out of terrible therapy and how to survive the long and tiring search for better.

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About pippa

40-something, yogi, gardener, reader and writer. Not great at any of those things but more than happy to be average. I'm anxious, depressed, chaotic, boring, delighted, excited and often foolish. It's all good. And cake.
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