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.
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.
