For the sake of completeness I want to add that Nick has met someone else. I’m obviously not jumping up and down for joy at this, in fact I want to curl up and cry everytime I think about it but quite frankly this isn’t what I want to talk about. Recovery is about me getting better for me and come what ups and downs there are I will get there, alone if necessary.
I had a fab weekend last weekend. Went back down to Cambridge (old University and hopefully soon to be new University city), drank far too much and generally chilled out problem free (almost, ish). It’s amazing how many of my friends are still around and even more incredible that they’re still speaking to me. During my University years I had a fair few major public and private breakdowns. I withdrew from all social situations and generally treated people like shit. But they seem prepared to forgive and forget, and for that I am eternally grateful. Besides, if it wasn’t for me, some of them would never have had the opportunity to meet a prostitute 😉 I really must tell that story at some point…
This has cemented my decision to return there next year for my nursing course. Unfortunately I seem to have chosen the only place in the UK not to have been affected by the recession. By which I mean it’s the most expensive city to live in the god damn universe. In choosing to return to University, I’m taking a difficult decision. I want to be a nurse and to be honest, it’s the only way I’m going to get there but also I want to prove to myself exactly what I’m capable of. I know I can do well at it, if I remain sufficiently stable to function at the best of my ablity. A stable, happy me is a force to be reckoned with in any area of life. So I want to do everything possible to ensure the best basis for that stability And to me that means having my own place. I can’t face going back into student digs, not least because they’re only guaranteed for one year. I can’t even cope with a room in a shared house, people move things in the kitchen, they’re messy and disorganised, they touch my stuff and I freak out totally (ask anyone whose lived with me!).
I’m aware the above probably sounds completely selfish and off the wall but having my own space is essential. I need to know it’s mine, that it’s safe and secure, that things will be untouched and where I left them. The catch being rents in Cambridge are astronomical. When there were going to be two of us it wouldn’t have been so bad (despite what I said above about other people, Nick is the only person I can put up sharing my space with for any length of time), rent and bills between two is obviously a lot less than rent and bills between one. Thankfully I have some savings and I’ll have a bursary off the NHS. So at the end of the three years, I’ll be completely broke, possibly in debt but I’ll hopefully know I did the best for me and gave myself the best chance I could. And if I screw up… Well it won’t be for lack of trying.
Unless of course anyone has a rich relative with a property going spare? I promise to take good care of it 😉
Now I am certain this is what I want, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to put off filling in my occy health form. Occy health are my nemesis and I’m so afraid that once again they will be my downfall. I know I can do the course and that doing it would be the biggest boost to recovery, I know I wouldn’t ever let my condition compromise patient care, I know when I need to step back, to take five but somehow I don’t think the words of a fully paid up loony amount to very much in their eyes.
I have this compelling desire to be completely and utterly honest and beyond honest on the form. But there are versions of the truth and the one I have an urge to tell would paint me as worse than I really am. So does anyone have any advice about what to say? I’m aware that I’ll almost certainly have an interview with one of their advisors, so again what do I do? How do I portray the image I truly feel and not the rambling that tends to come out? The fact is, if I didn’t have this disorder, I probably wouldn’t want to be a nurse in the first place. Yes, it makes me suicidal at times, it makes me cry but it also makes me care and it’s that side I need to get across. Any nutjob nurses* out there have any advice on how they did it?! I don’t think I could take another crushing defeat at their hands.
*Nutjob is meant in the nicest possible way of course! Insert your choice of mental health sufferer description instead if preferred.
And finally, I know that borderline personality disorder is characterised by “affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days)”, but every sodding few hours? I’d pay good money to get to the few days end of the scale!