CBT Assessment

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Tomorrow morning is my appointment for CBT assessment. It’s been a long road to get to this stage, it took me the better part of a decade to seek medical help for something that I realised wasn’t normal but didn’t know was a recognised mental health condition. It’s taken another year of jumping through hoops with various GPs, nurse practitioners, psychiatrists and consultants before I finally got the opportunity to fully describe my situation to someone that might actually have something to help me as opposed to throwing pills at me.

I’m rather worried about how brutally honest I was on the questionnaires that they sent to me. I know the tick-box depression test thing will reveal the obvious state I’ve been in for the last few weeks. Yes, I have thought about killing myself, yes I do feel isolated from people. The other form was more open ended, I got to write what I think my problems are, what happened in my past that might have triggered them. I could have written volumes. It’s good in a way, I’ve never actually managed to express myself properly. My mouth goes dry, my throat closes up and whenever I try to approach the subject of how my appearance is a major source of pain for me I feel like I’m going to start crying.

Of course the thing that is worrying me most is that they will think I’m too depressed and suicidal for CBT to be of any use for my social anxiety at the moment. In truth, depression has been much more of a problem for me over the past months but one leads to the other. My social failures and isolation make me feel depressed and then I don’t feel like facing anyone, the spiral of despair.

I’m not sure what I want to happen. I don’t even know if I’ll be around much longer. I asked how frequent sessions would be and they said every 3/4 weeks. I’m not sure how much will be accomplished by seeing someone so rarely. I’m such a hopeless case, I need someone by my side every day to give me advice and keep me going.

It’s hard to describe and probably hard to visualise if you aren’t such a hopeless social failure as me but there are times when I’ve decided to make a real effort (by my standards) and set out to speak to someone in one of my classes. Now there are only a few people whose names I know and it wouldn’t be too weird for me to say something to, there was one girl I managed to talk to a little at the start of the course. Anyway, a couple of times I set out to try and at least say hello and ask if she had a good weekend or something, but then inevitably something would make me chicken out or she wasn’t there and now it’s too late. We haven’t spoken for months and she’s probably forgotten who I am. After these failures I’d go back to my room disheartened and wonder why I even bothered. I don’t know what to do, when it comes to setting goals I have no idea. That’s where I fall down when it comes to self help books, I just don’t know what I should be doing.

I need guidance but I’m not sure I deserve or even want it.

I’m alive, just.

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I think far too much. I know that last week, during the time I was at university I said less than 10 words to people. Nothing beyond meaningless greetings and empty thanks. I’ve fallen back into old habits in some ways, I listen through doors to make my getaway while no-one is around to stop me and enter into the awkwardness of a corridor conversation. I still have no friends in any of my classes and I move further from that with every passing day. I’ve spoken to someone on facebook but they don’t even acknowledge my existence in real life, probably to ashamed to let it be known they ever associated with me. I miss meals, hoard glasses and rubbish for days before daring to emerge from my hideaway.

I’m stuck. Apparently they don’t want to take me on for CBT until the suicidal thoughts stop. I don’t know how I can stop them if I can’t make any progress with these problems, assuming it’s all (or at least a major part) in my head like people keep telling me. I’m not so sure about that, I think people are just reluctant (or contractually bound not to) tell me that I’m a hideous looking screw up who is far too damaged to ever have a chance at being acceptable to people. Now I am in a dilemma, either I lie to my psychiatrist and hope CBT comes through soon, or I tell the truth and get nowhere. They can’t help me except by cramming pills down my throat but that doesn’t fix anything. I can’t call the crisis team, I’m not having a crisis. I don’t think there’s a line for people that slowly but surely fucked their lives up completely and are beginning to realise that it is far too late and a life of solitary misery is all that awaits them.

The usual disclaimer about me knowing how fortunate I am and how lucky I am compared to 99% of the world applies. I feel guilty about it every day already, don’t try to make me feel worse.

I'm alive, just.

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I think far too much. I know that last week, during the time I was at university I said less than 10 words to people. Nothing beyond meaningless greetings and empty thanks. I’ve fallen back into old habits in some ways, I listen through doors to make my getaway while no-one is around to stop me and enter into the awkwardness of a corridor conversation. I still have no friends in any of my classes and I move further from that with every passing day. I’ve spoken to someone on facebook but they don’t even acknowledge my existence in real life, probably to ashamed to let it be known they ever associated with me. I miss meals, hoard glasses and rubbish for days before daring to emerge from my hideaway.

I’m stuck. Apparently they don’t want to take me on for CBT until the suicidal thoughts stop. I don’t know how I can stop them if I can’t make any progress with these problems, assuming it’s all (or at least a major part) in my head like people keep telling me. I’m not so sure about that, I think people are just reluctant (or contractually bound not to) tell me that I’m a hideous looking screw up who is far too damaged to ever have a chance at being acceptable to people. Now I am in a dilemma, either I lie to my psychiatrist and hope CBT comes through soon, or I tell the truth and get nowhere. They can’t help me except by cramming pills down my throat but that doesn’t fix anything. I can’t call the crisis team, I’m not having a crisis. I don’t think there’s a line for people that slowly but surely fucked their lives up completely and are beginning to realise that it is far too late and a life of solitary misery is all that awaits them.

The usual disclaimer about me knowing how fortunate I am and how lucky I am compared to 99% of the world applies. I feel guilty about it every day already, don’t try to make me feel worse.