“I know you hate me.”

“I know you hate me.”

That’s what my GP said to me when I saw her last week. I’d asked for a new prescription for one of our medications, and she’d agreed to write it, but with the condition that we only get enough for one week at a time.

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I understood why she didn’t want us to have large amounts of medication at home. I didn’t say anything to her at the time, but I was grateful. I didn’t hate her. I wanted to thank her for doing her best to keep us safe, keep us alive.

Things are really hard right now. I still appear to be okay on the outside. I smile, I laugh, I joke. I tell people that I’m well, enjoying life, have plans for different things. Very few people notice how rapidly we’re switching. I’m rarely present for an entire day. Miss 16 and Miss 19 have been out a lot. Mr. Mid-twenties is organising my life, and trying to make sure things run smoothly.

I haven’t seen my psychologist for two weeks. Miss 16 went last week, and Miss 19 this week. It was Miss 16 that saw our psychiatrist last week, and I’m not sure who will see him this week. I’ve almost been banned from seeing our team. Apparently I can’t be trusted to be completely honest about how much I’m struggling. I automatically smile, and tell people that I’m okay.

I’m grateful for our team. I’m grateful that none of them (GP, psychologist, and psychiatrist) have walked away or given up on us. We’re complicated. We can rapidly go from coping to crisis. We have multiple psychiatric diagnoses. There are multiple trauma anniversaries that trigger horrendous flashbacks and body memories. We’re not easy or straightforward to work with. That is why I’m so incredibly grateful for the professionals that haven’t walked away.

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