Our Failing NHS

It's only when you become ill, that you notice the state of The National Health Service, today in Britain; boy, what a state this National Institution is in!  Mental Health seems to be the poor relation, when it comes to allocation of resources. It is the biggest health problem today and yet the funds to provide even a basic service don't exist. While our taxes still pay for cosmetic surgery to remove tattoo's for example, Mental Health Care budgets have been slashed; this is not acceptable. The Government need to seriously, radically and properly rethink The NHS, from administration, waiting lists and especially the standard of care offered!

As I am frequently told, Bipolar is a chronic illness, requiring constant monitoring and a lifetime of care, support and medication.  The most crucial aspect is time.  If a quick diagnosis is not given, it can literally mean a choice between life and death.

Eight months ago I gave up medication.  It had been failing for sometime.  I tried to take my own life, because the powers that be  offered no immediate help.  Another waiting list for someone who did not have the luxury of waiting.  The mental anguish and yes the physical pain involved in failing drugs was intense.  Many people with Manic Depression consider taking their own life and a high percentage succeed. Fast, effective diagnosis and a new, more suitable medication regime is crucial in preventing a relapse, harm and much, much worse.   Lives are lost every day because of inadequate services, unacceptable diagnosis, unskilled staff and incompetence!

Over Easter, I had a complete relapse.  Once again I attempted to kill myself.  My partner phoned The Police, who turned up immediately.  I was arrested for my own safety and that of my partners.  Thank God he phoned, or I would not be here today. He feels guilty every day, which is wrong.  With no secure Hospital accommodation available, lack of beds and ignorance, I was put in a cell.  The Police were truly marvellous.  The Duty Officer admitted I should not be there, but they were picking up the pieces of a broken system, that regards Police Cells as a suitable alternative to a Hospital bed.  I just about understood the seriousness of the situation and was just grateful they had taken me in.  Mania is dangerous, life is precious.

I was led from the cells in the morning to a room, where four Mental Health professionals were waiting. After assessment, they could not section me under the Mental Health Act, because there were no beds.  I tried to section myself, to no avail. Quite simply I agreed a plan with them in writing.  Darrell picked me up and was charged with my care and the administration of medication, and we were taken to the local GP surgery.  At that stage I was dangerously manic; my Doctor recognised how serious the situation was.  I was in severe physical pain, and he tried to get me into a psychiatric centre that day.  It wasn't quite that straight forward,  I was told to go home and wait for a call to admit me.  I was left in the care of my partner and a friend, Natalee.  I'm not sure how bad I was, but I believe it was upsetting for those who were there.  After three hours of calls, no psychiatric appointment was given due to a shortage of staff.  Darrell rushed back to the surgery to obtain sedatives as a temporary measure to prevent any further harm over the Easter period.

They prescribed a high dosage of the very pills that failed me eight months ago.  I don't really remember Easter.  Darrell physically cried when I took that first dosage again.  It was something I had fought against, battled to avoid and just could not face. Within half an hour I was gone.

Long after Easter I eventually managed to see a consultant.  She believed I also had undiagnosed ADD.  She would send a fax to the surgery to obtain another diagnosis. Yet another GP appointment and my notes had gone missing.  How the hell can they mislay a fax.  You have to bear in mind that this was three weeks later.  My temporary sedation was becoming permanent.  Darrell lost his temper.  By this time the meds were failing, I was, as I am today sinking into frightening lows and all they could offer was more of the same.  Officially now Darrell is my carer.  A bit power crazed, he demanded an immediate referral, which she agreed to do there and then.  About an hour after we left I received a call.  There would be an appointment letter in the post, but waiting times are long.

This is an extremely disturbing time.  My health is at risk, I need to get back to work and my depression is getting darker and darker.  I can't wait.  I will be dead if I don't.

We have taken the decision to go private.  My work, insurance and commitment from others, not the NHS, will pay for a private assessment.  I don't care how much it costs, I have no option.

What a sorry state our bloody NHS is in.  I can afford to pay, I shouldn't have too, but my future is important.  I see no future without this course of action.  Yes I am desperate for answers, without them I can not move forward; here's hoping!