U2 got it wrong, it's Mondays that are so bloody. Yes, yes I know they were talking about The Troubles, but I'm updating it for a post Good Friday Agreement world (hello, readers who don't know much about Northern Ireland. I'll get back to you all now). Monday brings the big weekly weigh in, which went about as well as it can do; I've gained a tiny bit and my BMI has gone up point 2. It almost seems like an accidental compromise between the Anorexic part of me- which is starting to seem like a separate, conflicted, entity in its own right- that is screaming ever fucking louder inside, desperately trying to mentally scrape the flesh from my bones, and the rational, sensible side that wants my tits back. Tits, tits, tits. It's amazing considering I ate a whole pack of Cadbury's eclairs on Saturday night, 'cause I couldn't sleep and when I pull accidental all nighters, and deliberate ones too for that matter, I get the biggest sugar cravings- the cookie monster has NOWT on sleep deprived Condron. Oh, and a whole bag of Maoams last night for the same, knackered, reason. I'm still under all the different BMI criteria that the potential next units are after, only just under for one of the units and still quite a bit under for the others.
Mondays, you'll know if you've read my usual Monday rants, also include The Review. That gets capitalised 'cause I think that's how we all see the weekly meeting to discuss progress with the psychiatrist, dietitian and a member of the nursing staff. Mine are always dead short 'cause I really, genuinely, have nowt to say. Same shit, different day syndrome, type of thing. I demand back what was taken from me on admission, which includes such items of mass destruction as saline for my contact lenses, hair grips and dry bloody shampoo, although I do have a bottle of nail varnish remover in here, that is all well and good... I tell you, and I'm meant to be the crazy one. Anyway, for the first time since I started demanding in December, they've said I can have it back, so that's iiiiite. My other demand was for a night at home, but apparently that is dependent on how my assessments go tomorrow. Oh aye, I have people from two of the next potential units (there are three in the pipeline), coming to assess me tomorrow, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. That can only go well, since one seems and sounds like a home for people with special needs, and the other is for Borderline Personality Disorder, which seems to be a heap of shit flung at everybody with an eating disorder. I don't even really believe in it, much less that I have it. But that's another rant for another day, I think.
Summat interesting did come up in my review though. Well, not massively interesting to you, I'm sure, but summat that confirmed exactly what I think of my community psychiatric nurse...
Psychiatrist- Do you have a good relationship with your care coordinator, has he been in touch?
Me- No he ant, and not overly. I think he's unreliable as shit.
Psychiatrist- But he has done all the referrals...
Me- Oh aye, he's brilliant at getting me locked up. Just when he says he'll 'be in touch' I've learnt that that's a crock of bullshit, akin to telling someone you're fiiiiine when you pass them in the street.
Nurse- He's leaving though, isn't he? And you're being passed to somebody else?
Me- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, exactly my point. He hadn't even told me that.
Nurse- Sorry, I thought it was common knowledge.
Me- Apparently not to his patients. Unreliable. As. Shit.
I love that I have someone who doesn't even deem it necessary to tell their patients that they're leaving, basically dictating what I'll be doing and where I'll be for the next year, maybe longer. Utter brilliance.