Borderline fits. Not necessarily in the medical sense of BPD but in terms of where I am in my life. I am on the border of true independence having spent the last few months living at Uni and then having the crushing disappointment of returning home. This has left me as still a medical student but at the same time not. I am stuck in this hole that is 9 months deep waiting for the new academic year to begin and to start afresh. I had thought that maybe this time would be best suited to procreating because as a future junior doctor (touch wood) I won’t have the time for my own family for at least 10 years. Bit of a stupid idea really, but it entertained me over the Christmas holidays as I spent family gatherings talking about how great Uni was going. I have realised that very few people are genuinely interested in honest answers to questions of “How are you?” and “How are you getting on at University?” especially over festive meet-ups.
This borderline existence has left me in a bit of a tight spot. Only five months ago people were waving me off as I flew the nest. I don’t think I can face the awkward questions that will come when they’ve realised that I have boomeranged right back again. Because of this I have stayed put and effectively resorted to a state of hibernation. Perhaps if nobody realises I’m back, I can pretend that this year never happened. If I am going to be honest with myself I am not hiding from other people but trying to delay accepting that I royally screwed up; and not for the first time. It is now that I am fully able to appreciate all those 12-hour shifts that I worked at the nursing home to pour money into my savings as I am now relying on those funds. At some point, I am going to have to buck up my ideas and find a job but today I am just going to hit the snooze button and bury my head in the pillow for a little longer.
In all fairness, I am stuck as I’m on the waiting list for treatment. As much as I love the NHS and everything it stands for it infuriates me when it only seems able to deal with physical illness. It is coming up to 12 weeks since I was referred to see a psychologist to start an unspecified form of therapy and I have still heard nothing. I understand that 12 weeks isn’t a horrendous wait for an in-demand service yet I feel as if given the circumstances of my referral there should have been a bit more urgency. When I presented at A&E hallucinating and seizing after a potentially fatal overdose, the staff where great; I am still alive! Their intervention was timely and compassionate and whether I needed treatment was not questioned. Since returning home, I have had to fight to get referred for therapy and am under the impression that I am just a financial burden to the local psychiatric services. I don’t know if this is something that others struggle with too, but it took a lot to admit to myself that I required support and even more to ask for it. I can’t help but feel that my struggles have been invalidated. If anything, this whole situation has made want to retreat further away from the mental health services, into my bed, under my duvet and hope that the mattress will swallow me whole.