After that psychiatrist appointment at A St and the appointment with D the day after that, I was adamant I would not attend any appointments with D again, nor would I commence therapy at A St once an appointment had been made for me. When my mother brought in a letter from A St informing me I have a psychologist appointment on 12 April, accompanied by an eight page pre-therapy questionnaire, a DASS and a K-10, I was close to just ripping the pages up, calling to cancel the appointment and crossing my fingers to never hear from them again. Slowly though, after it became apparent the doctors were quite keen on me having follow up after discharge and talking to a couple of nice nurses, I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d attend and see how it goes. That was before yesterday. After which it occurred, forget it.
I had obtained permission to attend my placement for a few hours and so I was away from morning until about 2:30pm. I arrived back at the hospital and was told by the nurse to clear out my room as “You’re being discharged right as we speak.” Umm. What? No forewarning whatsoever, except for Monday when I asked the doctor when I’d likely go home, to which she replied it’d probably be sometime this week. Yes, I wanted to go home. Providing it had been discussed with me and I’d been given prior notice so I could mentally prepare myself for what’s to come. Not when I’d been booted out with n0 notice whatsoever because someone sicker than me clearly needed the bed more.
“You’ve been discharged, but the doctor wants to talk to you before you go,” I was told by the nurse after I had packed my things. Lol. She does, does she? But I’ve been discharged so am not your problem any more! “Do you want to go home?” the doctor asked once we had sat down in an interview room. I almost laughed, had I not been so upset and angry. Clearly, it doesn’t matter, as I’ve already been discharged. And so, being ever the obliging patient, I tried my best to make their job easier. “Will you harm yourself once you get home?” “No.” Can’t wait to get home so I can cut. “Will you call a helpline or crisis number if you need to?” “I guess so.” Not if my life depended on it.
I had come in with some of my own medication, Pristiq and Seroquel. As expected, it was taken off me on my admission, and I was told I’d get it back when I left. Did I get it back? No. Instead the nurses told me they couldn’t find it. They attempted to search for it. Leaving me to wait there for an hour while they did. It took them that long to come to me with the conclusion that they could not locate it, and it had probably been discarded of. Great, so you’ve just wasted an hour of my time for nothing and thrown away medication I had paid for, that is not exactly cheap either.
Still, that hour of waiting wasn’t completely unproductive. I took that time to give a call to A St to inform them that I would not be making that psychologist appointment on the 12th. Apparently the psychologist will call me back today to reschedule an appointment. Lol, don’t bother. I either a) will not pick up the phone, or b) will make it quite clear I have no intention of seeing her, nor any other clinician.
I don’t think there’s ever been any mental health professional that has not ended up leaving me feel let down and/or hurt in the end. So as far as I’m concerned, I’ve had enough. The whole lot of them can get stuffed. I’ll go my own way.