UK "psychological assessment" & mental health system

Preliminary note: Blogspot seems to refuse my edits in regards to colour and font and just does whatever the fuck it wants, so nothing really looks as uniform and as pretty as I want it to look. I hope to be able to fix that when I have the possibility to do so again, but until then, this is a mess. I apologise on behalf of blogspot.  
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In late July I had a psychological assessment by a "psychiatric nurse" from the Living Well Network. On the 23rd of November that assessment was finally done and sent to yours truly, and yours truly can't even begin to express how ridiculously WRONG that thing is. 

Basically, it states that I am a normal person without problems, because  

a) my kitchen is clean, 

b) my clothes are clean, 

c) I appear to like my cats, and 

d) I have a degree.  

Nobody who has a Master's degree and wears clean clothes and keeps their flat somewhat clean can have any sort of mental health problems - that's what that "psychological assessment" tells me. 

I am not sure how that nurse who conducted the interview with me got her job, or is able to keep it. Literally everything I said about my psychological background was disregarded:

• "Phrenosyne says that she experienced an "unhappy childhood", but she clearly exaggerates, because her kitchen is clean."
• "Phrenosyne tells me that she often feels sad, but she has a degree so it is unlikely that this is actually true."
• "Phrenosyne complains that she felt bullied at work, but as a woman employee at such a prestigious institution as the XXXXX XXXXX this is an exaggeration."{FOOTNOTE}
  
• "Phrenosyne says she was diagnosed with depression as a child, but she has a degree, so that cannot be true."
• "Phrenosyne says that she has social anxiety, but she can go to the shops to buy cat food, so she is clearly exaggerating."
• "Phrenosyne tells me that she suffered a stroke in her early twenties, but I consider this to be a lie because she clearly has no problems with English now."
• "Phrenosyne says that she finds social interaction difficult, but her clothes are clean and she keeps her kitchen clean, so this cannot be true."

etc. etc. pp. ad nauseam

I find it highly telling that the only parts in this "report"/"assessment" that are written with a true insight are the parts about my clean kitchen, my clean clothes, and my clean flat. Says a lot about the quality of education that "psychiatric nurse" got. I did tell that woman that I cleaned up specifically for her visit, and that I often don't do anything when depression hits me - you know, standard depressive symptoms: You lie in bed, stare into nothingness, don't move, don't shower, don't clean anything, because you cannot even find the motivation to move a limb as all seems pointless and dark and why not kill yourself? But me cleaning my flat for someone from what I generically call "the government" is clearly a sign that I am not depressed at all. 

Hell, I showed that woman my arms (who are quite cut up), and in this "assessment" of hers she states that "[she] is at a very low risk of self harm, because she only self harms superficially when she has been binge drinking". EXCUSE ME?! My self harm is nothing I am proud of, far from it, but I am quite capable of doing that when sober. And "superficially"... dear fucking gods. How much deeper do I have to cut for it to be recognised as non-superficial?? 

Apparently, my suicide attempt in June, for which I was dragged to the hospital by a horde of policemen (think SWAT team) after they barged into my flat, threw me onto the ground, handcuffed me, put their knees into my back and repeatedly slammed my head onto the floor whilst yelling at me to BE CALM!!!! (all of which resulted in a ridiculous amount of bruises and a slight concussion, but nobody cared about that either) didn't count as a suicide attempt either, but was logged as "superficial self harm". I know what superficial self harm is, and trust me, I haven't been doing that. IF I resort to self harm for lack of any other coping mechanisms available then it's proper self harm. And a suicide attempt in which you stab your veins with scalpels in order to release a maximum amount of blood from your system before carving down into your veins and hitting them is not "superficial self harm". Dear gods. This country's mental health system is well and truly fucked beyond good an evil. 

In addition to all that crap, the "assessment" referred a phone call that has apparently been made on the 8th of November (I cannot remember one, and neither can my phone log, but hey, who fucking cares) in which I apparently stated that I "suffer from several eating disorders". 

WUT??? 

Thank you for informing me, you incompetent fucks! I wasn't aware of that, I am happy to see that you not only disregard anything I said about how I feel and what my problems are, but that you also make up fictional phone calls in which I inform you of nonexistent disorders! I DON'T HAVE ANY EATING DISORDER! 

References to my psychiatrist's diagnoses WHICH I SHOWED THAT WOMAN were disregarded as blatant lies of mine as well (probably because people in the UK cannot trust foreign doctors from foreign non-UK countries - after all, they're foreign and could say ANYTHING). So apparently I made up all of my diagnoses that I got back home and showed that "psychiatric nurse". 

Seriously. Is this what the UK mental health system is like? You send a borderline retarded "psychiatric nurse" to visit someone who just tried to kill themselves, they have a look around, note approvingly that the flat and kitchen is clean, that the patient in question doesn't stink, make a note that they have a degree, and then they're off for almost four months to then write an "assessment" stating that the person in question is fucking fine?! FINE?! DO I HAVE TO CARVE WORDS IN MY FACE AGAIN SO THAT I AM NOT CONSIDERED FINE??? Apparently carving and burning up your arms doesn't count on the magical and wonderful secret grading system of the NHS. What would you need to do? I told her that I had been in the grip of fucking suicidal ideation for months, and that it didn't get better! What do they want someone like me to do to recognise and accept that I would need SOME help?? I am not asking them to put me through years of fucking therapy or anything, or section me away (because cats), but WHAT DO THEY WANT?! I just wanted to see a fucking psychiatrist to get some medication to tide me over until I manage to sort my circumstances out - but FUCK NO, WE CAN'T HAVE THAT. I am just lying to them about all of my past and all of my psychiatric history, faking the 900+ scars on my arms because I find that funny and an engaging way to spend my fucking time?? 

These people make me sick. Reading this "assessment"/"report" I had to start to cry, because I felt so betrayed. Apparently I'm doing something wrong when talking to mental health people in the UK. Being honest and open with them, telling them how it is, how it was and what kinds of treatment I received in the past, telling them why I am in a bad shape right now seems to be a really, really bad idea. What do they expect me to do? Should I take a razor to my face when they talk to me? I can do that. But this is just.... so very, very wrong.
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Edit: Addendum
After the aforementioned suicide attempt, when I was in A&E with friend Dr Mabuse, the two social worker ladies (very nice, no complaint there) who asked me about me and why I was there continuously remarked that they were impressed that I had such a high level of reflection on what I was thinking and feeling and the reasons for that, and that it's rare to have a patient who is so articulate about all that after such an incident. Apparently that makes these people think that you weren't serious. For some reason, being able to explain rationally in detail why you came to the conclusion that it would be best to simply remove yourself from existence, and how you tried to do that and why you failed (human weakness always being the most uncomfortable point in that list), makes the people interviewing you think that you didn't really want to die or even hurt yourself.
How dumb and insensitive is that? Do I have to be raging with tears and the fuel of madness in order for someone to believe that yes, /i would like to end myself? Shouldn't being able to explain my reasons be more reason to trust my judgment on that?
Fucking ridiculous. "You can think, hence you WANT TO LIVE!" - No you stupid fuck, I just failed to die, there's a distinct difference.
/Addendum
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This woman was talking to me for an hour. I cleaned everything up because I was under the apparently mistaken assumption that you fucking clean your flat when someone visits you, especially someone from an official institution. I tried to keep my calm, even though I broke down crying several times throughout the interview. What? What did I do wrong? 

Should I have tried to cut my arm off? Should I have smeared the walls with blood beforehand? I dont want to be sectioned - but trying to appear like a somewhat sane adult who simply needs help because they've been failed by all of the systems apparently in place for people like me in the UK apparently was a huge mistake.

You can't win in a game like that that is rigged against you from the beginning. Being left to float in an existential limbo for almost four months after such a visit, hearing nothing, getting no help whatsoever, and then getting this thing sent to you in which you have to read that you're fine and at no risk of self harm - it is not just insulting, it is deeply hurtful. In the time since that woman had talked to me (or rather, since I had talked at her), I have cut myself 11 times. Admittedly, five of those were not really as deep as I could go, but the rest were me enthusiastically carving up bits of myself to try and cope with the overwhelming feelings of isolation, externally caused depression (situational context of mode of existence) plus a correspondingly thorough dose of self hatred and existential despair. 

This isn't helping people who need help. At all. I am lucky enough to possess a relatively high level of self reflection (say the professionals), because that comes with my IQ and 15+ years of examining myself and trying to get better on my own because there is nobody there to help you. I dread to think what someone with a less developed system of internal coping mechanisms would have done - or someone in a worse situation than me. It's no wonder that there are regularly news about people cut off from benefits committing suicide here in the UK whilst they're waiting for help from both the social security and mental health system, particularly when you're "fit for work". (<-- LINKS)
{I'm not happy that I fall in this category - as with many people who are in similar circumstances, if not most, I feel ashamed for my problems (the devious devil of the ominously designated 'mental health problems'), because mental health issues are generally seen as something completely different from physical health problems. Physical health problems happen to you, but the mental health problems aren't considered to be something that also just happens to you, but something that you intrinsically "have", something that you *are*}

There is no mental health system here for people who are really at risk and really need it. I've talked to enough people who also suffer from mental health issues of various kinds, who have all been left alone by this "system". We cannot contribute financially to the UK because we're "crazy" and "wrong" and "lying". 

I have talked to six different doctors, and they all refused to refer me to a psychiatrist (why? Apparently I dont need one, simple as that). I have been refused treatment at emergency clinics (you need a referral from a GP first, even if you show up there with blood dripping from the cuts on your arms, in tears and hardly able to communicate because you're so fucked up in the head BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN LEFT ALONE BY EVERYBODY - and if you don't have a referral from your GP? Well, there's probably a reason why s/he won't give you one! Go back home!). 

Good going, UK "mental health system". This will surely solve all of the problems and high suicide rates. Verily.

It makes me sick.

http://www.theguardian.com/society/2015/apr/17/austerity-and-a-malign-benefits-regime-are-profoundly-damaging-mental-health

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FOOTNOTE: "woman employee"? If I had a penis, would I have been referred to as a "man employee"?! It makes me sound as if I was cleaning the floors rather than curate a giant collection. "woman employee". Hah. No sexism there at all.

the semiotics of rap?

Ever since a friend showed me the beauty and joy of K.I.Z., Alligatoah and Trailerpark, my brain has been vibrating with the insane urge to take a closer look at the semiotics of German aggro-rap and analyse it. 

I am not really a big fan of räp in general. But this stuff is awesome. Not just because it's angry and has delightful lyrics, but because the lyrics read like Umberto Eco on cocaine. 

I wanted to write something about the semiotics of Trailerpark's "Fledermausland" (cf. last blog entry), but I am faced with the same problem that I have with the following:

• explaining Umberto Eco 
• explaining complex diri compounds in cuneiform 

Which is ridiculous. I shouldn't have problems with explaining the inherent magnificent beauty of semiotically finely crafted pieces of art - but I do. My brain is whirring and whizzing around and collects and accumulates all of the possible connections that I can find, but I lack the words to express that. Which I guess is one of the huge problems I am facing with my PhD - trying to express what my brain does. 

fuck my brain. 

I wonder if the guys who write these lyrics are aware of the fact that they are doing something astonishing with language on a highly complex semiotic level. Particularly Alligatoah's lyrics are a fucking feast of semiotic beauty. I would like to have sex with the guy's brain in order to see what actually goes on in there. 

To make this clear: I do not think that the topics of the various songs in themselves are particularly brilliant. As someone who holds modern consumerist society in extremely low regard, they appear logical to me. But oh dear fucking gods - it is a fucking joy to listen to this stuff, on an intellectual level. The cross-connections that are being made with single words within a sentence are beautiful. 

I'm quite the fan of Goethe, and I really have to say that Alligatoah in particular is a joy to read that strongly reminds me of the Dichterfürst, only with the beautiful complexity of Eco's best novels. The cross-references within fucking single words make me swoon with demented joy. 

...but now I need to hit something.

Zusammenräumung: Aussortieren und Spasten

Da ich ja beschlossen habe, von dieser Gefängnisinsel zu fliehen, bin ich derzeit damit beschäftigt, meinen Kram durchzugehen und all den Scheiß, den ich nicht brauche, auszusortieren.

(nota bene: Meine Katze schläft gerne auf dem Laptop, und hat es geschafft, das Touchpad zu aktivieren, das ausgeschalten war. Diese Katze ist ein Hacker! EIN HACKER!!!)

Aussortieren.

AUSSORTIEREN.

...das ist für mich ein echtes Problem. Ich bin ja im Grunde genommen das, was man als "Packratte" bezeichnet - ich behalte ALLES, inklusive:

• Rechnungen
• handschriftliche Verweise auf Bücher
• Kinderüberraschungseiüberraschungen
• Holzstöckchen, die ich nach Hause geschleppt habe
• leere Feuerzeuge
• kaputte Kugelschreiber, deren Logo ich mag
• ausgebrannte Kerzen
• Vogelfedern
• defekte Festplatten
• Post von christlichen Christenorganisationen 
• kaputte Eddings
• Blätter (von Bäumen) in interessanten Farben
• Skizzen
• abgelaufene Öffi-Karten
• Schnurfragmente
• Sackerl mit interessanter Farbgebung
• durchgescheuerte und verfärbte T-Shirts

...ich bin der festen Überzeugung, daß ich das Potential zum "Hoarder" habe. Im vergangenen Monat habe ich mir zwei Straßenwarnungshütchen (oder wie auch immer die heißen), zwei Stäbe aus Holz (jeweils ca. 2m lang) und drei Bretter aus Pressholz in die Wohnung geschleppt. Ganz zu schweigen von dem Fenster, das neben meinem großen Sofa steht. Ein FENSTER. Gut, ich hatte einen Grund, das Fenster mit heimzuschleppen (ich sage nur, daß die Doppelverglasung echt was herhält, wenn man lang genug in dimmen Lichtverhältnissen draufstarrt)... aber trotzdem.

Wenigstens hab ich jetzt schon zwei Säcke voller "normaler" Kleidung dem Container für Kleidungsgaben übergeben - das kriegen dann so Leute wie ich, die sich weder Essen, noch Trinken, noch Klamotten leisten können. Ironisch irgendwie.

Dazu wurde noch mein gesamtes Make-Up Reservoir dem Müll übergeben. Make-Up? ICH? Ja, lieber unbekannter Leser, Make-Up. Als ich hier auf der Insel der Seligen resp. Verdammten angekommen bin, hatte ich diesen irren Tick, mich auf "normale Person" stylen zu wollen. Hat nicht funktioniert - schon allein, weil ich es nicht ertrage, Make-Up auf meiner Haut zu haben. Wie schaffen das all die Frauen (und Männer, ich will hier nicht die Metrosexuellen oder Transen benachteiligen), mit Schichten an Wandverputz im Gesicht rumzurennen? Also, WEG DAMIT.

Meine Wohnung besteht großteils aus Büchern - also kann ich nicht viele davon hier auf der Gefängnisinsel zurücklassen. Außer denen, die mir von wohlmeinenden aber komplett vertrottelten Menschen geschenkt wurden. Virginia Woolf. Um Himmels Willen! Ich kann das nicht lesen, das ist noch langweiliger als Büchner! Man gebe mir Goethe oder Nietzsche oder Lovecraft oder gottverdammte Fachliteratur, ned dieses elende "das mußt du als Vaginalträgerin gelesen haben!"-Scheißzeugs.

Spasten, alle miteinander.

[zensiert]

...ich kann gar nicht so viel fressen, wie ich kotzen möchte.

Soll die kleine Mannhexe doch bitte wen anderen mit seinem Intellekt und seinem übernatürlichen Wissen beglücken - hier stört er bloß meine Kreise.

Und sich dann wundern, wenn ich auf die Frage "was würdest du jetzt gern tun?" mit "die Stadt abfackeln" antworte. Hat der ernstlich all die Monate geglaubt, ich sei ein liebes kleines nettes Mädchen?! BGLALLXCHES BGLABFRKACKZTEHLNM. Unter Zuhilfenahme von 'ner Kettensäge, rein im Falle des Falles, daß etwas in kleine Stücke geschnitten werden muß. Rotspritzende kleine Stücke.

Und da ich ja meine Stereoanlage und meine Verstärker in der holden Heimat zurückließ, kann ich nicht mal meine Stimmung via Akustik in die Nachbarschaft hinausdröhnen (wäre derzeit ne mehrstündige Alligatoah-Playlist).

Bin ja draufgekommen, daß meine ideale Beschallung derzeit aus einem obszönen Mix aus K.I.Z., Cookie Monsta, Alligatoah, Eisregen, Funtcase und alten Die Ärzte besteht. Hier auf der Gefängnisinsel versteht ja keine Seele meine Muttersprache(n), da kann ich frei vom Herzen die ganzen etwas wüsteren Songs meiner diversen Lieblinge in Sachen Misanthropie sowohl laut abspielen (versuchen) als auch vor mich hin singen beim Besuch im Supermarkt - ohne daß mich auch nur ein einziger Mensch leicht schief ansieht.

Oh Freude schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium...

Aber - Scheiß drauf. Ich komm von hier weg. Also - aussortieren und zusammenräumen.