Regulars will know it’s been a difficult few days. I think I’m ready to tell you why.

On the advice of my doctor, I am making an income insurance claim going back to 2010 when I stopped working full-time. As a general rule, I don’t trust insurance companies, so I am approaching this exercise with a great deal of trepidation: no matter how strong the moral claim I may be able to lay, I  know they will do anything in their power to avoid paying up. Still, my doctor thinks I have a strong case, and he says he has helped other people with such claims in the past.

I needed to get accurate data about my admissions to hospital during that time. The private hospital I had no problems with, because by the time I was transferred there I had recovered some function, and can remember when I went in and when I was discharged. The public emergency admission which preceded that has always been a bit fuzzy in my memory, though, so I made a FOI (Freedom of Information) application for copies of my hospital records. (At least the records show another reason why my memory of that time is hazy: it looks like they doped me with lorazepam whenever I opened my mouth.)

They sent me everything from notes of the initial phone call my psychiatrist made telling them I was on my way, to nurses’ observations, to the evaluations of various psychologists and psychiatrists. It made for pretty horrific reading.

Yesterday I took my journal of that time and read the corresponding pages to my therapist. I have not looked at those pages except briefly, last week, to try to verify admission/discharge dates. The pain and self-loathing seemed to fill the room, even as I stumbled over the frequently illegible words. The belief that I should somehow be punished for being so ill as to have to go into a hospital; the now-poignant letters of apology to my loved ones (never sent); the bleak certainty that my life was over … the sense that there was no hope, that I deserved no hope, and that no hope would be forthcoming.

I’m not in hospital now, but I feel a similar sense of hopelessness, and I struggle not to feel the same levels of self-loathing. I was so stupid to think I could read that material and it not affect me deeply.

I don’t want to write much more now. I feel, overall, a strong absence of hope. I’m deeply connected to that part of me which despairs; I need to go and reconnect with my positive self, my beloved self, the observing self which sees but does not identify with this suffering.

I feel obliged to end on a more positive note, so here goes: this, too, will pass.

Bleak; but this, too, will pass

Bleak; but this, too, will pass



Filed under In

4 responses to “Bleak

  1. I wish there was a “Don’t Like, But I Understand” button


  2. Wow, reading through past reports and journal entries must be difficult. I avoid mine and have shredded a lot without rereading them.
    Be persistent with the insurance. I had the most stressful four months of my life when I was unable to work and yet had to fight with my insurance company to get my compensation. And it all stemmed from the fact that I didn’t apply the moment I was too sick to work. They really don’t seem to understand that when suffering major depression you aren’t coherent and the last thing you can focus on is complicated paperwork. I don’t know how many times I broke into tears about it while meeting with my doctor and my therapist. I was truly lucky that they were so supportive and went out of their way to help me through that time when I feared homelessness and had to contend with people trying to deprive me of my rights when I wasn’t in a position to defend them.
    It sounds like you have a great doctor, so I think it will work out for you. Already you are ahead of the game knowing about the insurance company’s mentality of trying to avoid any payments. You have so much more evidence than I had so I don’t see how they can challenge that. It just may take time.
    I hope that tomorrow brings you some lighter moments. Take care!


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