Rings around the moon.

I believe that I have finally untangled the threads - that I’m well on my way to describing the forces that caused the pain in my therapy. In Hegelian terms, my therapy was a tragedy. Both parties - myself as the client, he as the therapist - both of us thought that we were right. Neither of us could see the other’s reasoning as legitimate. So the only possible ending is, according to Mr Hegel, ‘the hero dies at the end’. Now. Here I am. In the library with Tesco sandwiches, crisps and fruit juice, planning what comes next. Still alive! I have my university place in September, and so I’m beginning to focus in on the core problem that binds my traumatic experience of therapy and the catastrophic treatment of my son, by mental health services. OK, my conclusions - start at the top level. Start with the awareness that something is wrong and the obvious answer - make a complaint! There is a problem! The outcome of a complaint process is to decide who has the most legitimate argument. And t...

As I have explained, my son did indeed manage to  escape from psychiatric services . But the harm done to his sense of identity, to how he understands himself because mental health treatment conforms to a medical model, and because there is shame associated with ‘diagnosis’... The harm done, remains one more hurdle for him to jump. It doesn’t take much imagination to feel how difficult it would be to regain confidence and trust enough in oneself, even the most mentally healthy of us, after life events have shaken the very foundations of our lives. Now imagine - how much harder with a ‘diagnosis’ and the memories of being sectioned, of being  treated  without one’s consent; the sound of doors locking, the muffled screaming, the atmosphere of anxiety and violence, and the drooling shuffling zombie walk of new-to-Risperidone patients. There is more, there is worse. In truth, psychiatric services are probably more than happy to see ungrateful people go and I was so, so ungrat...

This is how it was: [LINK] I think that what I wanted and needed most, when my son was panicking and hallucinating and the home visit team was sending him into a downward spiral, what I needed beyond all things - was to know that one day it would be OK. That one day he would be able to look back at the fear and pain and get some kind of overview, some distance from the power of it. Preferably without continuing with the Risperidone, Lorazepam, Zopiclone, Citalopram and Diazepam, Five years later and yes, it is OK. And no more R,L,Z,C and D.  How did that happen?  Well it happened despite my husband's best attempts to sabotage it - and the consequences of his attitude and actions remain as horrible, mouldering left overs. It happened because The Early Intervention team supported my son. There was no cajoling or threatening (Home visit Team - or rather the psychiatrist who literally led the home visit team specialised in bullying). They respected my son's wishes not to be medic...

OK, well, The Black Box blog   was a nice interlude! I'm being ironic .  I may have said this before - that I fell in love with my therapist?  And I tell the story of what happened here: LINK. Spoiler alert: Not a happy ending. But, it was an interesting experience, taught me lots. So, back home, back to the sense of my life as being me running rings around the moon, or ripples from a stone thrown into a pool, the image of the moon becomes rings that slowly, slowly calm back into a coherent picture. All in all it is OK, I've done good! I have done what I set out to do! In 2015 I picked up on an expression that passed over my son's face that gave me the heads-up that something was going very wrong, and I listened to that intuition. I followed the narrative to the coroners court and resolved to become the kind of therapist who isn't like 'your mom's friend'. I wanted to work with young men who are suicidal. I wanted to become someone who knows how to engage ...

Just when I thought it was all over. I honestly don't know what to do about what is happening. But this madness has to stop. Psychosis is understandable, it is human, it's fierce and terrifying, but it is immediate and alive. This - the thing I'm trying to deal with here and now is way worse...and I don't know how to deal with it.  I fought one round with it (1988- 1990), and left my home burning (!) no, nothing was burning. I simply let him (my first husband) have everything, didn't ask for a penny. And I made sure that all blame could be levelled at me. This was important. I gave my first husband a narrative that side-stepped his lethal victimhood and inability to blame his abuser. I had to keep my daughters alive, I had to get out without causing him to blame himself. And I did it. I managed to create another life, and on we went. With my second husband, with our open doors, home-ed and kids everywhere, people were amazed at what a happy family we were. Three chi...

It has been four years and I don't know where he is. I know he works at the same place. I assume that he is living with her. I believe that he is playing happy families - again. Having shed his role of dad for his own son, to playing daddy for her younger (not yet psychotic)  kids. This is his tried and tested method for being a better person, better than the man he has replaced. And who has he replaced? Her husband and himself - by stepping into a different family - again. I have fantasies of following his car to find out. Perhaps I'm so wrong. Perhaps he is heartbroken and living alone, swigging whiskey and still reading Jack Reacher books. Or perhaps he has become someone I could respect? I have three friends who would love to help me to do this!  I'd wear a headscarf, and different glasses and sit in the passenger seat. Would he notice? As an unfamiliar car shadows his Golf? Does he still have the Golf? A blue Golf. He bought it just before leaving.  God damn!  W...