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So today I went for my first session, as recommended by my GP, with a government funded therapist.

One and half hours into a 40 minute slot and he still hasn't completed all he needs to go through with me. is this normal I am wondering?

Half way through the generic questions about depression begin to frustrate me because I don't want to seem to be self-diagnosing and want him to be able to work it out himself. But I am giving him all the clues and getting no response. So I tell him I have been researching C PTSD and the symptoms seem to match. He immediately changes tack and starts asking trauma-related questions and I snivel and cry my way through his Kleenex. Bingo.

So having run over time he still didn't finish what he needed to ask for the initial assessment. He makes a phone appointment to finish for three days time because he isn't available locally for 4 weeks. ( he visits to my local GP centre - my lack of transport )

There was a lot of stress on risk assessment and promises from me that I am not about to take my life.

Verdict! Useful and hopeful. Watch this space. 

Something I wrote this morning...

MAYBE TOMORROW

I drag a lumpy old cushion to my cold stone doorstep. Wrapped in a fleece-lined hoodie, double socks and a deep-red soft wrap I place pen to paper in the hope of re-kindled creativity. I had promised I would make it to the Beer Garden opposite today but this, at least, is a beginning.

I study the mossy cobbles at my feet for the first time this year. April in Devon lifts the daffodil heads bobbing above the damp ferns. They still struggle against the chill breeze off the sea as it funnels past the remains of my old friend the Holly. Now a clumsy stump under the telephone wires. A skeleton cast aside by the estate on a day when I was not here to protest. The two poor camellias, now exposed, offer a solitary flower hidden in the glossy green leaves amongst the struggling buds.

The crocosmia has already taken over the flower bed. I had promised myself that I would thin them out this year but they strike through the white quartz stones collected over the years from the beach below, jostling aside oyster shells from the ancient midden behind the house,  multi-coloured glass bottles and a twisted shell-shaped silver spoon.

In contrast, the newly-painted, stark, white wall of the chapel hangs with the remains of the once proud clematus that used to bring exclamations from visitors clear across the valley as it flung itself in ravishing pink splendour over the chapel roof. Now stray fingers hang valiantly from the eaves, a few leaves hopefully a sign that it will once again lovingly embrace the hymns on a Sunday.

My eyes are drawn to the one offensive plastic pot amongst the mossy terracotta jumble; a testament to the careless builders with no regard for peace or pride. I remind myself I still have to re-pot the azalea properly but it will have to wait for a miracle bag of compost to turn up.

London pride spills over the curve of an old grinding stone, a soft pale-yellow primrose at its centre. Sheltered from the wind and thrusting proud against its winter fleece a Blue Moon rose; a present from a kindly neighbour with whom I once quietly shared a childhood memory of my mother's rose garden.

Anxiety creeps into my chest and begins to clench a fist around my heart. My pen falls silent a while. I listen to the bird song, the distant drawing of tides over cobbles and high above the lonely keening of a solitary buzzard. Pheasant calls mingle with seagull cries ...

And suddenly, all is broken. Estate strimmers slice across the page shattering my pen. Rapidly I retreat inside, cats nipping past my ankles, back into the safety of the house.

Perhaps tomorrow I will make it past the doorstep.

Hey there!

New to the site and also to PTSD. I am pretty sure it is what I am coping with. After a year of physical exhaustion and physical symptoms as intense as a growing loss of feeling in my legs, every test imaginable to man, 10 visits to a "specialist" I have been told there is nothing wrong with me and it must be psychological. Working my way through the internet I found your description and it was shocking to read about myself. I am not ready to discuss details yet but the only way I deal with my situation is to write. So if you don't mind I will share what I wrote this morning as it really says it all for me.

MAYBE TOMORROW

I drag a lumpy old cushion to my cold stone doorstep. Wrapped in a fleece-lined hoodie, double socks and a deep-red soft wrap I place pen to paper in the hope of re-kindled creativity. I had promised I would make it to the Beer Garden opposite today but this, at least, is a beginning.

I study the mossy cobbles at my feet for the first time this year. April in Devon lifts the daffodil heads bobbing above the damp ferns. They still struggle against the chill breeze off the sea as it funnels past the remains of my old friend the Holly. Now a clumsy stump under the telephone wires. A skeleton cast aside by the estate on a day when I was not here to protest. The two poor camellias, now exposed, offer a solitary flower hidden in the glossy green leaves amongst the struggling buds.

The crocosmia has already taken over the flower bed. I had promised myself that I would thin them out this year but they strike through the white quartz stones collected over the years from the beach below, jostling aside oyster shells from the ancient midden behind the house,  multi-coloured glass bottles and a twisted shell-shaped silver spoon.

In contrast, the newly-painted, stark, white wall of the chapel hangs with the remains of the once proud clematus that used to bring exclamations from visitors clear across the valley as it flung itself in ravishing pink splendour over the chapel roof. Now stray fingers hang valiantly from the eaves, a few leaves hopefully a sign that it will once again lovingly embrace the hymns on a Sunday.

My eyes are drawn to the one offensive plastic pot amongst the mossy terracotta jumble; a testament to the careless builders with no regard for peace or pride. I remind myself I still have to re-pot the azalea properly but it will have to wait for a miracle bag of compost to turn up.

London pride spills over the curve of an old grinding stone, a soft pale-yellow primrose at its centre. Sheltered from the wind and thrusting proud against its winter fleece a Blue Moon rose; a present from a kindly neighbour with whom I once quietly shared a childhood memory of my mother's rose garden.
Anxiety creeps into my chest and begins to clench a fist around my heart. My pen falls silent a while. I listen to the bird song, the distant drawing of tides over cobbles and high above the lonely keening of a solitary buzzard. Pheasant calls mingle with seagull cries ...

And suddenly, all is broken. Estate strimmers slice across the page shattering my pen. Rapidly I retreat inside, cats nipping past my ankles, back into the safety of the house.

Perhaps tomorrow I will make it past the doorstep.