Talking to stop from falling.

The following is heavy (and I swear a lot – apologies for any offence in advance - It was also written a week or so ago – but only now I am calm enough to share.)

Let me be clear that in writing this I in no way want you to carry this weight. I don’t want you to fix my shit. My intention is not to put my shit upon you by sharing it. (I try not to feel or see it as a weight – but that's another blog post.)

I feel people don’t talk about their own mental health to each other because of these ideas; of being put upon, weight baring and shit fixing. Compassion is not about that, it’s about listening and empathising – that’s all.

A few weeks ago - all over the country - people where encouraged to take five minutes to talk about mental health in order to end stigma as part of Rethink’s Time to talk campaign.

On that day, like most days, I spent more that five minutes talking about mental health – my own and the mental health of the family member that I love and care for, who is in hospital under section. They had their CPA – Care Plan Assessment – meeting, which happens every 12 weeks. We are supposed to go through their plan and assess whether we are ‘moving forward’ – it's the biggest game of pass the fucking buck bureaucracy I have ever come across and it is notoriously difficult. I am always in the shit position with no power, asking how we are measuring ‘recovery’, what the milestones are and fighting to keep us, the family, informed of what’s happening with care, meds, behaviour – you know - what the fuck is actually going on. There are countless events that have taken place, when I’ve been the last to know, including an allergy to meds and hospitalisation for triple pneumonia!

My family member is under section because society deems their way of seeing themselves, and world, as dangerous and unsound and legally they are seen to not have the judgement to make safe decisions for themselves. However, even though they are ‘protected from themselves' by their section and people have been appointed to manage their care, they can decide whether I am allowed to know what is going on with their treatment. This can happen on their request. My family member has to agree to this on a rolling basis – meaning they have to constantly remember to say they want me know anything – I don’t believe the doctors constantly ask. My family member can be non communicative. I always feel the hospital use this to their advantage.

During the CPA, it came to light that their had been yet another incident that I was not informed about. The doctor brought up in the meeting that the ‘prosecution had taken place.’

What prosecution? - I say

Did the social worker not inform you?

Inform me of what? - I had no idea what he was talking about.

In August 2013 – over two years ago - my family member was attacked by a member of staff in the hospital  – whilst being restrained on the floor the member of staff stamped on their head, bruising their face and neck – the female nurse was reported by another member staff and has now been prosecuted and sentenced.

I can’t begin to explain how this feels. Let me start by saying that this hospital is miles better than any hospital my family member has been in before. Which should begin to paint a picture of low secure units in the UK.

My family member is ill due to trauma – lots of trauma and I want to protect them from anymore, but it seems I can’t. 

They are a huge number of carers who also manage their own mental health. Me included, but my needs seem so much less than my family member that I often ignore them until it’s got so bad I’m not functioning at all.

The day after the CPA was a hard day; I am always trying to keep my head above water, not let myself fall. I guess that's why I’m writing this, to stop myself from falling. I worry that my friends feel put upon by me, feel like it’s too much weight, that I want them to fix it. It seems I am also afraid of stigma, even though I don’t think I am.

When I’m in a bad place. I loose my voice too. I speak to understand my emotions, to make sense of things. When I don’t speak, when I loose my voice, everything stops making sense.In the past I would have kept this to myself, but I fear that might make me as bad as the hospital – hiding information as a form of self-preservation.

There are wider implications of this incident – about human rights, freedoms and choice and sharing of information. Who has a voice and when is that voice listened to? If a voice is disregarded as ‘mad’ how do we ensure that the voices appointed to speak for them can be trusted? Can anyone ever really speak for someone else’s wants and needs – even me as a family member?

I am lucky to be able to exercise my voice and I’m hoping by doing so it will stop it from disappearing and me from falling.

Time to talk.