Going Back Into Treatment

Tomorrow I begin treatment again at my local Community Eating Disorder services after over a year fending for myself. It’s safe to say ‘apprehensive’ doesn’t even come close to covering how I feel about this.

This is not my first rodeo. In fact this will be my sixth attempt with services and I dare not count how many types of treatment.

As many of you know things did not end well last time I left this particular service which has definitely tainted my view of it and made it infinitely harder to re-seek help when I desperately needed it.

The treatment I received was actually very good. I was allowed to do two full rounds of RODBT which I found incredibly useful (and has led to lasting friendships), was offered psychiatric and dietetic input and had the NICE recommend minimum 40 sessions of a front line treatment.

Bad treatment endings

However the end is where things went downhill. Initially, during my assessment, I had been told that I would not be discharged from the service until I had reached a healthy BMI (a terrifying but reassuring prospect that they wouldn’t give up on me) and I was told that my sessions could be extended ‘if necessary’.

Like I said the treatment was good, I found it helped me a lot with perspective, interpersonal relationships and a lot of the deeper roots of my disorder. I bonded well with my therapist and felt that we were doing some good work together.

Unfortunately this did not translate into the desired increase on my weight chart and that was a big deal for the service. There are many reasons for this that are much more complex than “it didn’t work”. As I will continue saying until I’m blue in the face EATING DISORDERS ARE NOT ABOUT WEIGHT.

My weight is just a symptom of my Anorexia which, while admittedly crap, has been my crutch and coping mechanism for longer than I care to remember. It’s what I run to for comfort when things get rough and bloody hell they got rough.

I didn’t just lose weight

Previously to entering treatment I’d had to move back into my family home after 7 years away – losing my beautiful little home, my independence and a lot of self esteem in the process.

During the course of my treatment I also lost my job as the company I adored went under. I went from doing full time work, commuting, extra media and freelance work to nothing. No redundancy money and no savings to fall back on either. I essentially lost my purpose as well as an income.

I eventually went through the grueling process of applying for benefits which stripped me of what little I had of my sanity. Months upon months spent filling out forms and waiting in terror. The assessment itself put me back in terms of weight restoration by literally six months.

We also lost my partner’s grandfather after a particularly brutal and drawn out battle with Dementia, Pneumonia and Sepsis. Grief and Depression crashed into our lives. We saw him the day before he died and the next day I saw a dead body for the first time.

I was discharged three days before the funeral. My weight was almost the lowest it had ever been. It was much lower than when I entered services and certainly wasn’t the healthy target they promised to help me get to.

So it was no wonder really, given all the set backs and shocks that I couldn’t manage to keep or put on weight during this time. My weight fluctuated and often dropped. Not surprising in grief but because I was in an Eating Disorder service this was apparently proof that the “treatment wasn’t working” and they should stop my sessions because they “clearly weren’t helping”.

For the record: unhelpful is being told by a clinician that you’re pretty damn normal ambivalence about weight restoration and recovery means it would be a “waste of money and resources if you don’t want to get better”. 

Unhelpful is also being told that weight gain is your choice and yet also being told your brain is too malnourished for you to make competent choices.

I begged to stay

I begged not to be discharged. I begged my therapist, I begged my GP. My parents and partner begged. The GP herself wrote an strongly worded letter against my discharge.

When I was discharged I was told, in some attempt to quell my fears, “It’s OK, we expect you to get worse but you can always be re-referred”.

The words stuck in my throat. Always come back? I needed help then, I never stopped needing it this past year. And I was angry because we all know it’s not that simple. You don’t just wander or drop into mental health services. You need to be re-referred, you need to sit on a waiting list for assessment, be assessed, a decision must be made and then, should you even qualify for treatment you must sit on another waiting list for treatment to begin.

Essentially..

I was discharged September 9th 2016

I eventually gave in and was re-referred April 10th 2017

I was assessed on May 24th 2017

I start treatment September 22nd 2017

In that time I have mostly relied on the people around me – my outrageously patient partner and family, my friends. I have seen a GP face to face 7 times since I was discharged, had two review clinic sessions (where they essentially just check your weight and overall health for 20 minutes) and found a free support group that I attend when I can.

Of course this and everything that has happened in the past year since I was discharged has had a huge impact on me and I could have really done with that continued support. I have self harmed (something that had only happened once before in the last 6 years), my blood tests results have been coming back bad, I’ve been back on regular ECGs, I’ve started developing a bald spot from pulling my hair out of anxiety and I’m currently waiting to find out if I have in fact done permanent damage to my bone density.

My last chance

So here I am, a year on, about to step through that door again and I’m scared. Because this is my last chance. I’ve been told this is the last treatment they are offering me. These 16 sessions are the only chance I have left on the NHS and I can’t afford to go private.

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rTMS for Anorexia Nervosa: My Experience (Part 2 – Making tough decisions)

If you need to catch up or refresh your memory you can read Part One here.

In part two of this series of blogs I will be talking about actually getting into the trial and what was going through my mind during what turned out to be quite a long process. I do this partly for selfish reasons – I find writing cathartic, it helps me to make sense of my experiences and quiet my racing mind.

I hope that it might give researchers or anyone working or living with someone with Anorexia or any Eating Disorder, an insight into some of the thoughts that might be going through our minds when we start, or even just consider entering ANY treatment.

Finally I want people weighing up treatment options to know it is OK, in fact it’s normal to have mixed opinions, to feel pulled in different directions and to not only have doubts but to talk about them.

Enrolling in a Clinical Trial

Enrolling in the clinical trial first started with working out if I was eligible to take part in the first place. Research trials often have to have strict criteria otherwise results can be easily skewed. For the TIARA study I had to fill out a number of assessment forms, not unlike the ones you are given entering any mental health service.

There were a lot of questionnaires about my Anorexia, other health conditions and my history of service use as well as the usual demographic questions. On top of this, because part of the study included a number of MRI scans, I had to do a questionnaire to make sure it was safe for me to have the scans (after all it’s a bloody massive magnet so you really want to make sure there isn’t even the smallest fragment of metal in your body).

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MRIs – big scary magnet machines that are surprisingly easy to fall asleep in

My God it’s like dealing with Vogons sometimes and I ended up having to go through the whole process twice in the end to find the absolute exact piece of information needed which ended up being exactly what we’d expected all along anyway. Oh and I paid for the privilege of finding this one piece of information about my own body, fabulous.

Sorry for the (admittedly ever present sarcasm) but when you’re a health tech geek and you know personal Electronic Health Records could be amazing and save so much stress and time it can be a tad frustrating.

vogon

Ok maybe the Vogon reference is a bit much but it’s certainly not a process I wish to repeat any time soon

Thankfully I was eventually given full medical clearance and we were off.

Pre-Treatment Concerns and Musings

Having spent six months attempting to get into the trial and banging my head against various bureaucratic walls along the way I hadn’t really let myself get excited or believe that it would actually happen. At several points I seriously contemplated giving up trying but was spurred on by the knowledge that it was the only way to try this treatment. Or any treatment for that matter as, bizarrely, after being discharged from services I’d been promised that, should I get into the trial, I would be given several outpatient sessions to support me – which didn’t actually materialise until after the trial had ended.

All of a sudden I had less than two weeks until my start date which would be a full on day of assessments, an MRI and my first session of rTMS. The new regime, going from being mostly sedentary for almost a year and hiding from the world – to commuting again every day and the energy it would use up was daunting.

I will hold my hands up to being a pretty damn anxious, highly strung and controlled person. I like to take my time to think about things before rushing in and this was something that it felt like I needed way more time to properly process before I could start. But I pushed myself out of my comfort zone because it felt “now or never” (it actually wasn’t, I could have pushed the start date back to January but after waiting so long I didn’t feel I could any longer) but that’s how much brain works, and I use the term “works” loosely.

I also figured I couldn’t possibly comprehend what I was about to undergo as it was completely unlike anything I had ever experienced before. I had watched as many videos as possible, read information pages, first person accounts.

As Ready As I Could Be

I had a LOT of conflicting thoughts, especially in the last few days before treatment started as is shown by several lengthy journal entries which allowed me to get down some of my fears and hopes.

My biggest fears were as paradoxical as my illness. I was terrified the treatment (and therefore another course of action, some hope, getting some form of routine back, being back “out in the world”) wouldn’t work.

I was equally terrified it would work and my Anorexia would be cured.

Because as horrendous and destructive as this disease is it feels safe, especially when my world hasn’t stopped shaking in some time and I feel like I am continually losing my footing. It is an insidious and disturbing constant in my life and I find it very hard to discern where I end and it begins. Truth be told I’m not exactly sure who I am without it and to face losing it – or at least to begin actively engaging in something that could result in it’s loss – was not easy to deal with.

Cue minor existential crisis

This part, typed into my phone while chain smoking and shivering in the cold, the night before the trial was due to start, stands out in particular:

I’m being handed an incredible opportunity by being able to take part in this trial. Without this study if I wanted this treatment it would cost me up to £10,000 or something ridiculous like that. Not an option when I haven’t been out of my overdraft in seven years. This is my only chance. I’m just so terrified of me (or my Anorexia, whichever one of us it is) sabotaging this. I know I am still reeling from being discharged against my will from mental health services not long ago and finding my feet on my own. Everything is so messed up at the moment too, is this really the time for this fight? I know I’ve been fighting recovery and in perpetual relapse mode. I don’t know if this treatment can work if I don’t want it to. And if that’s the case surely I shouldn’t be so selfish and stop this now, I’ll only screw up their results and then this treatment won’t get approval and people that actually deserve this treatment won’t get it..

If I put my psychology hat on it’s as clear as day looking back – I can see the major catastrophising for a start (I realise objectively obviously I’m not so important that a whole treatment could be made or broken on the results of one participant alone), a lot of black and white thinking (now or never) and a lot of guilt, shame – that I had this opportunity, whether or not I was “worthy” of it.

Of course now looking back I can see objectively that this is classic me behaviour when entering treatment and it’s played out many times before but as ever, it can be bloody difficult to see the woods for the trees when it comes to your own mental health.

When you share a body with this particular disorder for half a lifetime it knows your every weak spot and it does not hesitate to twist the knife when it sees an opportunity.

I had concerns too about how I would manage such a dramatic shift in my daily routine. I was lucky in that the trial was only 1 or 2 trains and only 90 minutes or so door which meant I only had to deal with a maximum of 4 a day (not bad for me!) and my Disabled Rail Card made costs much more manageable. However I still needed to be in London every week day for 18 sessions and an extra day for the final assessments and MRI. A few years ago that would have been nothing for me, I would have laughed at the ease when I was working full time, travelling in peak hours, commuting 4 hours a day on top of volunteering and being a carer. However a year out of work and mostly being told (and often made) to not “over-do it” my stamina has diminished considerably and even a trip a week into London can require days of recovery.

I was very aware that my devious disorder could easily use this as a perfect opportunity to ramp up it’s behaviours and pull my strings like a puppet. I would have opportunity, certainly, to over exercise and reduce my intake. My brain went back and forth trying to work out if my intentions were good, or at the very least “good enough” to do the trial.

In the end I decided to take the risk but make sure that I had back up in the form of peer support, my partner and family as well as calls with my lovely GP. I’m still not sure how well I did on this front, I know I pushed limits at point, tested waters I shouldn’t but overall I managed.

In part three: The part you’re all actually interested in – the treatment itself! Including the procedure itself, the idiosyncrasies and particulars of the trial and a few ridiculous pictures including my brain selfie.

What a year of unemployment has done to my mental health

It has been almost a year now since I found myself unemployed and unable to work due to illness. A lot has happened in that time, my world has been turned on it’s head and I have been left feeling emotionally bruised and battered. I’m not sure I can say with honesty that I recognise the person I see in the mirror all that much these days.

When my job ended (one month and one day before Christmas, a blow that felt particularly callous) I said I had chosen to leave for health reasons. This was not the case, in fact I was made redundant without any severance pay as the beautiful, brave social enterprise I worked for was  dismantled around me and then closed down.

However at the time I wasn’t able to say that, it wasn’t until months later in February I was able to tell people I had not left voluntarily. A hard thing to keep to oneself especially when you’ve spent over a decade in therapy learning and being encouraged to reach out for support when you need it-and I did need support badly. Even now I can’t really go into details. What I can say is that in the run up to the end the company had been whittled down to just myself and my boss and we worked ourselves to the bone under unbearable pressure to try and save what he had built, the literally award winning work we did supporting people with mental health problems.

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A beautiful but bittersweet night at the Tech4Good Awards 2015 knowing it would be the last award we would ever win

Slipping and then free falling down the rabbit hole

I had already begun deteriorating earlier in the year as the pressure mounted which manifested in deepening anxiety, depression and as my Anorexia worsened I did literally begin to work myself to not much more than bones.

When the job ended I was devastated but I also saw it as a rare opportunity while I had the safety net of my parents roof over my head, to “work on myself”, “devote myself to recovery” and “give myself a break for the first time in years”. Noble goals.

I think the biggest thing I have learnt about myself this year is that I am naive and I have definitely learnt that the hard and painful way.

I naively thought I had lost enough and things were as bad as they were going to get. After all the previous year I had been forced to move out of the lovely little flat I rented with my partner, back in with my family due to a torturous neighbour situation which ended in police intervention. I had lost my home and independence, now my job, income and health. It couldn’t get worse right? Fool.

In the immediate aftermath of the job loss there was a genuine grief, not just for what I had lost but for my colleagues too, the business itself, the way of life which was difficult but something I relished. Commuting daily into London, helping people, travelling all over the country..

I thought that some time off (planning to get back to work in the new year) would give me perspective but instead I fell into the oldest trap my mental illness lays, I fell too deep into my own head. Without structure or an incentive to fuel myself the Anorexia did not waver, instead it grew and I shrunk. I chased a number, a grotesque and arbitrary figure that has been stuck in my head for over 12 years and I didn’t just reach it I went lower and it terrified me but I could not stop even when my own heart was threatening to quit on me.

imag0904_1

This, if you can believe it, is the more “discreet” ECG which I wore for a week at one point 

It terrified the people around me too. When I’m ill it feels like I’m under water, I can’t concentrate properly on what people are saying because everything sounds distorted and I feel a strange numbness – only reinforced by being so cold I am often physically numbed. Yet it still feels like a needle being stuck into your heart when friends see you and burst into tears, or when you realise your boyfriend is scared of holding you too tight and breaking you. I could see objectively so clearly the absolute destruction my eating disorder was doing but it still felt like the only sane reaction to my insane brain in my suddenly upside down, stripped back, broken world. Suddenly I found my whole life given over to battling the illness, believe me it didn’t happen like it does in films with a spiritual retreat and sudden Eureka moment but with brute force. At one point I was having five appointments a week – group therapy, individual therapy, check ins with the GP, blood tests and ECGs. I saw psychologists, psychiatrists, dietitians, nurses, you name it, I tried it. I was asked on multiple occasions by clinicians if I thought I needed to go into hospital. A stupid question to ask a perfectionist, people pleasing Anorexic. Especially when consenting meant a bed in the “nearest” unit which is 400 miles from home (a shocking situation in itself). I couldn’t leave my partner, my family and friends, my whole support network and go to another country for months on end – how could I say yes to that regardless of how ill or far gone even I could see I was?

In January 2014 I did something I never usually do; I made a resolution, that I would not put myself through the hell of another winter with Anorexia. If you’ve had this condition you know winter is torture, your whole body feels cold every minute of every day, unable to generate any of it’s own heat you sit on radiators until your clothes melt without you noticing, Raynaud’s becomes so bad you wash your hands until water you don’t realise is scalding your skin. It is a season of wearing three layers of leggings and tights under your trousers and still shivering. In January 2015 I did not make that same resolution but I still hoped there would not be another. In January 2016 I made no such resolution, there seemed no point.

raynauds

By far the worst year ever for Raynaud’s – I’ve literally only had about two weeks respite even with a good summer

I ended up in A&E until 3am because of re-feeding syndrome, I self harmed properly for the first time in six years, so much time down the drain in one motion. Suddenly I couldn’t deal with phone calls any more, I couldn’t deal with people or being outside if I didn’t have to, I was endlessly broke, my world shrunk to the four walls around me and bland, badly lit waiting rooms as I cancelled every plan I made and withdrew further and further. My only respite were the moments of happiness I had with my family and partner who have bent over backwards and broken themselves to fix me this past year. That and a wonderful group of people I met through group therapy who I have thankfully stayed in contact with and meet up with for peer support (which for us involves a lot of coffee and much needed ranting).

At some point I ended up applying for benefits, something I had pretty always managed to avoid. Despite being eligible in the past through pride I did not apply despite my Dad repeatedly pointing out he had paid taxes for over forty years so that if anyone, especially his own flesh and blood, needed support, it would be there. Seeing no other option I applied and jumped through the hoops, seemingly endless loops put in front of me by the DWP. There is a blog in the works about that experience.

Sometimes I find myself wondering if I can put a cost on the emotional pain, the stress and anxiety that they have put me through and if I did would it add up to more than the meager sum I receive in pounds sterling? I cannot count the number of panic attacks I have endured, the volume of tears of frustration spilt. As someone who is very ill the benefits system seems geared to heighten any pre-existing anxiety or paranoia you may already have. The threatening brown envelopes, arbitrary demands and the ever looming fear that your only means of survival could be stripped away at any point wears you down. In the three weeks that I waited for a face to face assessment I lost half the weight I had managed to gain in the previous six months and the assessment itself left me unable to leave the house for weeks and knocking back Valium just to get out of bed. In the latest saga I now owe £700 I most definitely do not have because of an admin error. This year has felt like one disaster after another.

Over the last few months the outside support has dried up and I am increasingly facing these endless hurdles I face with only my exhausted family to help. Group therapy ended, I saw that one coming at least and could prepare myself. Then I found out I was almost at my allocated number of therapy sessions. When I started with this service I was told I wouldn’t be discharged until my BMI reached a certain target which, although terrifying, was healthy, I was told therapy could be extended if necessary. It wasn’t. Despite my weight not changing and being dangerously low, sub-emaciated for over a year and still the weight where hospital had previously been recommended, despite behaviours popping up like a deadly game of whack-a-mole, despite my failing health and my desperate plea for help I was discharged back to my GP. Now I find myself with 10 minutes every few weeks if I can get an appointment. I have lost my outlet, my safe space and I have been discharged back to primary care sicker than when I entered services.

In a desperately cruel twist of fate just as my therapy was ending and I was trying to process that loss my partner’s grandfather passed away. Grief careered into our lives like a bulldozer with no one at the wheels, ripping through my partner and his family and all I could do was watch helplessly and try and do what I could to ease the raw pain. Futile. I told everyone involved in my care that I was deeply unsafe and at my most vulnerable, that I didn’t know how or why I was meant to cope with all this without help. I was told by clinicians I “would probably get worse after discharge” but “it’s okay, you can always be re-referred”. I’m not sure I would want to go back now though, it feels like that window has closed, I feel more damned to this disease than ever.

So here I find myself, a year on. I always used to half joke that if I ever stopped (running from education to one job after another, always commuting, travelling, rushing, trying to save the world) I wouldn’t know how to start back up. It’s not so funny now.

The much wished for, dreamed of recovery seems further away than ever, my weight at rock bottom, my health precarious and no light that I can see anywhere in this tunnel. Although I am told otherwise I feel useless and a burden. The system does a lot to back up your paranoia and to push your self esteem down further. The endless “scrounger” rhetoric gets through even the thickest skin. All the logic I have at my disposal, my knowledge that I am too ill to work, that I have worked, have contributed, always paid taxes, fizzles and disappears in the face of brown envelopes and the culture of fear the Department of Work and Pensions perpetuates.

I know I will get back on my feet, I am, despite all of this, one of the lucky ones as I have a family that supports me, a roof over my head, a partner, friends (those I haven’t managed to push away) including a wonderful group of girls I see most weeks for moral support. What is hard is not knowing when this will come, when life will start getting better. I feel like I haven’t been able to catch a break this year, positives slipping through my fingers like sand or just out of reach. If the word desperate has come up a lot in this post it’s because I am desperate, for change, for a glimmer of hope, for a break or turn of fortunes. I know I am not this shell of a person, I know I have so much to give and all I want is to go back to work and the real world and be well.

What are you doing next weekend?

Me proudly sporting my CLASP jacket
What are you all doing next weekend? I ask this because as you probably know next Friday 10th October is World Mental Health Day.
This year I’m doing something special and I would love it if you could join me, if not in person then in spirit, Walking Out of Darkness to raise awareness of mental health and in particular suicide.
The walk has been organised by CLASP, an amazing charity which has been started by a pioneering man named Kenny who has himself, been affected by suicide, having made an attempt a few years ago. Later this year they will be launching a helpline for people affected by suicide or suicidal thoughts including friends, families and carers which will link up with 111 and be an amazing resource for people across the UK.
The walk is 10 miles but don’t worry, if you don’t feel up for it you can still join us on the day and show your support. There will be stalls to browse with information too. You will be in good company with several thousand others including members of the NHS, supporters, charities, Department of Health, British Transport Police, MPs and celebrities. Not only that but some of my BuddyApp colleagues will be joining me and we will have a Buddy stall on the day.
Sign up here for just £10. If you use the code “Kat10” the money will go to the charity of my choice, DWED.
You can also sponsor me directly, I’m raising money for the charity DWED (Diabetics With Eating Disorders), a charity close to my heart. Type 1 Diabetes with a co-morbid Eating Disorder is a little know, much understood condition although we do know that females who are type 1 have twice the risk of developing Anorexia or Bulimia as their peers and as many as 40% of 15-30 year olds regularly omit insulin.
Every little bit helps, so please donate a couple of pounds or share with others.
If you can’t join us please do tweet your support using the hashtag #WalkingOutOfDarkness and encourage your friends, family and colleagues to do the same

Week Two: Eating Disorders Awareness Week

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The second week of February, well from the 11th to today, the 17th of February it has been the annual Eating Disorders Awareness Week.

Every year i am blown away by the amount of support and awareness raising that goes on during this week, especially by Beat the eating disorders charity.

And this year was no different with both their “Sock it to Eating Disorders” and “Everybody knows somebody” campaigns which both received a lot of high profile support and attention.

Some things i absolutely must mention..

My wonderful friend and London VIR for YoungMinds Amy-Louise posted this inspirational video. Amy-Louise reached out to the online community and asked them to send her their videos and the result is both heartwarming and heart breaking in equal measures.

You can also visit her blog and Youtube channel to see more of the wonderful work that she does.

There were also some amazing blogs this week on YoungMinds website from young people and their families on the themes of Eating Disorders and Recovery. Please remember that all blogs of this nature can be triggering if you are struggling and should be watched only if you are feeling up to it.

And i know this is a bit of a selfish and silly one but i was incredibly excited that i was re-tweeted by Stephen Fry even if it did involve airing his dirty laundry!:

Stephen Fry retweets WellHappy!

Stephen Fry retweets WellHappy!

 

There was also a groundbreaking debate on Eating Disorders held in Parliament on Friday and chaired by Caroline Noakes MP, Head of the APPG on Body Image and a vocal campaigner for change and awareness. I have started talking to her over Twitter and am hoping to meet with her soon.

I will be posting more specifically about this debate in a blog coming soon. Watch this space!

When targeted advertising sucks: eating disorders, childhood bullies & dead friends on Facebook..

I just had a friend call me up to see if i knew that there was a large picture urging you to lose weight at the bottom of my last post on Eating Disorder Awareness Week. Now as far as i can see there isn’t one (but i am paranoid) so this leads me suggest it is our dear old enemy targeted advertising.

Unfortunately because my blog discusses things such as “anorexia” and “eating disorders” and other key words like this, I and many Eating Disorder websites and forums suffer from very inappropriate, triggering and potentially dangerous targeted advertising.

I see it all the time, well i used to before i got Ad Block, and it was horrible. Diet pill ads on Pro-recovery websites for people with eating disorders, babies toys advertised on bereavement forums. And there are just so many more examples out there.

And who out there hasn’t had Facebook suggest they befriend their old childhood bully, or wished a dead friend who just can’t bear to “remove” just yet a happy birthday or asked why you haven’t spoken to them recently. Unpleasant!

Targeted advertising is still  a shockingly blunt tool at times and the best way i’ve found to deal with the problem is..

Get rid of all the Ads and Pop-Ups altogether!

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Adblock

I did this awhile ago and i can barely remember what life was like before, i tend to recoil in horror at other people’s computer screens.

And it’s really easy i promise and a great way of avoiding triggers online, especially when we’re talking about Eating Disorders.

Just google Ad Block and download the one that is compatible with your browser.

Mental health, GPs and young people

This morning i called up my doctor’s surgery to get a much needed appointment with a GP. For most this is a task that needs little if any thought. For me however it can be a potential minefield.

What’s more when i called up i was informed that my appointment would be with a new doctor, not one that i had met before or had any experience of. Accepting the appointment, was for me, a pretty big gamble.

I’ll explain. I have had mental health problems to some level or another for most of my life and i have been using mental health services for coming up to nine years now. I have almost endless experience of all sorts of medical professionals from psychiatrists to nurses and everything in between.

Obviously as a UK resident my first port of call when it comes to health (both physical and mental) is my GP. GPs often feel like the gatekeepers to other services and organisations and i have always felt that it is vital to have a good working relationship with them.

However when it comes to mental health nothing is ever so simple. I would like to say that i have had predominantly good experiences but this is not the case.

I think the problem comes, to some extent from a combination of two factors: the fact that this is mental health and that i am a young person. Apparently these two things mean it is often harder for me not only to access the treatment i need but also to have problems recognised at all.

I wish i could say that i was alone in this experience but unfortunately that is far from the truth. I have spoken to countless other service users young and old about their experiences of GPs and they very much mirror my own. I wish i could tell you that young people weren’t told that their conditions were “a phase”/hormones/attention seeking/manipulative. Eating disorders are seen as a fad or a diet gone to far, depression dismissed. And if you were told this after opening up about something deeply personal that you may have not ever shared before, do you think you would go back or try and get a second opinion? I know i would think twice. I know it is a hard fact to stomach that some children and young people suffer from severe mental health problems but we can’t ignore or it deny these people help because it makes us uncomfortable.

All the evidence shows that a huge proportion of adults that have a mental health condition report symptoms starting in adolescence and the power of early intervention, as shown especially in EIiP (Early Intervention in Psychosis) services, cannot be denied.

And yet we still struggle to get our voices heard and to be taken seriously.

GPs need training not only in how to spot the warning signs of mental distress in children and young people but also need to be educated on atypical presentations (we don’t all neatly fit into diagnostic boxes) and a more holistic and open approach to young people.

Luckily today was a positive experience. In spite of all my anxiety in the run up to the appointment i was seen by a doctor that listened to me, took my opinions and preferences into account and made me feel relaxed.
It is just unfortunate that i can’t say that more often.