This is a story about home visits...

I went to my GP. I forget why I went, but one of the main reasons was because I'd been depressed for so long that I wanted to try antidepressants again, but a really powerful combination called "California rocket fuel". One of the provisos of me getting the prescription at that visit, was that I would see a psychiatrist to review my case.

The first time I saw this new psychiatrist, the rocket fuel wasn't having much of an effect, and I offered to swap my stockpiled tramadol, in order to remain on the same antidepressants. She was really pretty worried about me though, and I was supposed to see somebody once a week.

I got a surprise text message from the Mental Health Crisis Team home visitors. That wasn't what I had agreed with the psychiatrist, and I felt let down by mental health services, again, so I ignored their requests to come visit.

By the time I went back to the psychiatrist for a second time, about a week after the first, I had become unwell, broken up with my girlfriend quite spectacularly and I had abruptly stopped the rocket fuel.

I didn't feel suicidal. I felt confused. I knew that the breakup had been done hastily, and that I didn't have the love and support that I needed. I knew that without her, my future was pretty bleak. I really had very few ideas about what to do next. My psychiatrist's concern - from the beginning - was to stabilise my mood. I'm not taking a therapeutic dose of anything at the moment, because it takes so long to safely start my new medication.

In some ways, the breakup prompted me to act with urgency - trying to sell high-value items and asking contacts for work. My energy has been low for as long as I can remember, and I still can't face the open jobs market. I've stopped even taking the recycling out or doing any washing. I started out well enough, but a couple of minor setbacks and I was discouraged

I was safe at her place. Safe from reminders of all the places where I cut myself, or put a knife to my throat and tried to find my jugular vein with the point of the blade. I was safe at hers, from self-sabotage and making an already long list of jobs even longer.

Back at my place I sank like a stone.

The thing about the Home Teeatment Team, is that you never see the same person twice. They all get distracted by the view and they have no idea if I'm deteriorating or not, which I most definitey am. If they saw me more than once, they'd notice the untidy beard, the dirty clothes, the weight loss, the extreme exhaustion.

My alternatives to home treatment are a crisis house or hospital. I'll be forced to leave my home, if I stop seeing the home treatment team. Come to think of it, I'll probably be forced to leave my home anyway.

I slept on the sofa last night, because my two bedrooms are in such a mess.

Ironically, the home treatment team will see a much better-presented version of me, this evening, because I had a shave. What they don't understand is that the reason I shaved was to make myself presentable for going to the shops. I don't really want my neighbours or my concierge to know that "unwell" is an understatement. I eat one meal a day, if I'm lucky. The only reason I'm showering is because of keeping up appearances for the home treatment team. I either don't sleep, or I pass out for a few hours. I wish I could sleep right now, but sleeping suddenly became really hard.

Tower Hamlets is at least well funded versus Camden, so I've got far more options. However, having a home visit from somebody different every day, really doesn't tell them that I'm sinking, fast. The pile of recycling is jut one of many clues that I'm in a bad way, and the downward spiral is getting beyond critical.

Bloody disaster.

Tags: #mentalhealth