“I’m sick of your negativity.  Plenty of people have been abused and they have much better attitudes to life”.  My friend stirs an overly large mug of something or other.  “There are mental health services out there.  Access them”.

I have complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (cPTSD).  My PTSD is the result of childhood ‘events’ and requires therapeutic support.  Everyone is in agreement on that, even me.  But.  No one can agree on what support I should be eligible for, if anything. 

Community Mental Health.  Centrelink.  Mental health organisations/services (public and private, rural and city).  Eating disorder organisations.  Crisis help-lines.  Hospital emergency rooms.  Abuse survivor support groups.

Effective or ineffective, accessible or not, they are ever there.  Their assistance packages like mirages.  Very vocal mirages and I know their voices well: “Unfortunately…” 

“Your case is more complicated than we generally deal with” 

“You need an inter-disciplinary team, which we cannot provide”  

 “You have aged-out of our services” 

 “Our services are not relevant to your particular situation” 

“We only assist people with accommodation and physical needs” 

 “We do not provide long term services”

“Your disability does not meet our intake criteria” 

 “We do not work with clients who self-harm” 

“There are no female psychologists available.  I noted your history of abuse but is there a reason why you’re not willing to see a male psychologist?” 

“Our service centre is 200km away”

“We require a current referral from a psychologist or psychiatrist – not a GP” 

“Our waiting list is 12 months long – have you considered private?” 

“Your private health insurance will not cover outpatient care” 

 “We have no beds”

 “Our social workers assist job seekers.  You have been assessed as unemployable”

AND, bizarrely:

“Does your doctor want us to assess you or treat you?” 

Rejection hurts.  Rejection re-traumatises.  I am increasingly un-merry, but also determined.  So I plod along, from service to service. 

Then.  Finally.  A knock on the door.  And without warning I have a social worker from somewhere or other.  A Mental Health godmother type person.  She drinks cups of tea and teaches me useful things.  I become a tad merrier.  But then, a letter sandwiched in a Coles catalogue tells me that yesterday I was eligible for a social worker but today I am not.  Some terrible and mysterious event occurred at the stroke of midnight in a far distant office to forever part my eligibility and I.  I drink coffee alone and live on cheese and bacon bread rolls and tinned tuna because she hadn’t finished teaching me how to budget.

Country hospitals detox me post overdose, feed me hearty meals and refer me to public mental health services with lists longer than Santa’s.  The city hospitals keep me in a hallway (hungry) until someone decides my self-harm injuries are not severe enough for admission.  Anyhow, their psych ward has no beds, and they need the hallway. 

Go here, go there.  Increasingly thrifty, the barrage of rejection letters are hoarded for winter to use as fire starters.

No one is sure what to do with someone with a complicated trauma history.  And I don’t even think I was abused that badly.  Nor in a complicated way.  I am confounded by their confusion. 

Finally, in a twilight zone moment, I become eligible for a therapy pet.  I specify any creature OTHER THAN a dog. 

Or at least let it be a small dog. 

The therapy dog allocated to me is purportedly trained to detect the onset of a dissociative state (and thus keep me safe from harm) – a large and goofy dog which increases my anxiety and thus makes me more dissociative.  And exceedingly unpopular when I return it.  I was the test case for the organisation.  Surely, I can get used to the dog?  No.

Out of services to try, I am depressed.  Really depressed.  In fact, more depressed than when I started.

“Seriously, you are so depressing.  Why don’t you go and see someone and deal with your problems?”, my ever-wise friend offers, “you obviously don’t want to help yourself”. 

My suddenly unfriendly eyes avoid her own as I stab a fork into my empty plate.

This version written Dec, 2019; revised July, 2020