Meeting with the mental health nurse at the surgery

Yesterday, I met with the mental health nurse at the GP surgery; a lovely smiley Irish girl.

It was a wonderfully relaxed meeting. The doctors surgeries and NHS realised that a ten minute appointment with the doctor really isn’t enough to discuss mental health issues, so they create a team of specialist nurses with whom you can schedule longer appointments.

The first thing to impress me was that she’d read my notes. She knew about my gender issues, my autism, – and my overdoses.

She listened while I went over the events of the last year in detail. Empathising and validating my feelings. Sometimes, she would explain something I was describing back to me in a way that made sense.

Validation

She, too, didn’t seem to have any doubts about the likelihood of an autism diagnosis – especially since when I was a child the only children that would have been looked at were those with extreme symptoms.She talked about masking and understood that it’s likely that the masking all these years, trying to act and behave normal, wound cause stress and anxiety -and burnout, which is “often seen in people your age who missed childhood diagnosis”.

Masking

She talked about masking and understood that it’s likely that the masking all these years, trying to act and behave normal, wound cause stress and anxiety -and burnout, which is “often seen in people your age who missed childhood diagnosis”.

She asked if I worked; “I’m a programmer,” I replied, “the perfect place to hide.” She smiled at that and agreed.

Unusual emotional responses

I confessed that, whilst last time I’d been in an ambulance that I’d been traumatised and shutdown, usually (and I cannot remember how many ambulances I have called for my husband after overdoses) I would feel excitement at being in the front of the ambulance. I’d never shared that with anyone before – I have felt guilt – no: shame – at that feeling, having an idea that it wasn’t normal or right. It is, apparently, an autistic thing to sometimes have unusual and unorthodox emotional responses to situations. That was reassuring: maybe I just have to accept that I feel whatever I feel and there’s no right or wrong about it.

Feeling safe and feeling anxious

I talked about living in the flat and how safe and calm it felt; and that I really wasn’t looking forward to returning to the house. She understood completely why I liked it and what it did for me.

I expressed anxiety about having to return to the house with my husband; “as time goes on, things will become clearer” she said. I replied that time isn’t unlimited – but maybe it’s enough time.

Support

She talked about the help available; I said that it was almost all over the telephone, but the she said about the psychiatric liaison at the hospital A&E. That’s worth remembering: if I can get there, there are humans I can talk to face to face rather than over the telephone.

I’m going to see her again in four months time.

---

Middle of the night

It’s the middle of the night after the visit with the nurse. I’m feeling anxious because I’m meeting a friend in London in the morning.

That’s not what’s making me anxious (well, it is, but that’s not what’s keeping need awake).

Like an idiot, I booked a 7am train to go from Southampton to Waterloo station in London. That’s a ninety minute ride.

I do not need to leave at 7am to arrive at 8am to get to lunch at 1pm.

But that’s the way my stupid brain works.

So, needing to be at the station for 7am, I’ve set about five different alarms around the house to get me up at 5:15am.

The station is 21 minutes walk from the house. I should allow 30 to be safe.

I know that I can be up, showered, coffees, and out in thirty minutes. Again, my brain won’t let me cut it that fine.

So now, I’m lying awake, having gone to bed early, disrupted my routine, and stressing over trains in the morning.

Hopefully I’ll be able to sleep in the train.

---

After a restless night where I essentially lay awake worried that none of the various alarms I’d set would go off, got up, coffeed, and out with plenty of time to get to the station. Google reckoned that it would be a twenty-minute walk. I got to the station more than half an hour early. Fortunately, it wasn’t cold and the train wasn’t late.

I dozed and read on the train. Then, following my friends directions, I headed to the café he’d suggested we meet. I’m only two hours early. So I have a latte and a croissant while I read.

I’m reading “The Control Book”, as suggested by a friend as a sort of homework; I make notes as I go as clearly am supposed to be thinking about it – not least why he (a subby kind of guy) should suggest to me (another subby kind of guy) a book written by a Dom for other Doms.

I’m also reading “Jane Eyre”. This is usually my before bed reading, but I need something that isn’t my homework to read. This is quite a meaty book; and whilst the English is clear enough, I’m not always one-hundred-percent certain who is talking, or when I’m reading what one character is saying to another character, or whether I’m reading what a character is thinking.

While I wait

I am feeling more than a little anxious: I’m getting hot flushes, which is my castrate body’s way of letting me know! I’m going to have eight or nine hours with this person I don’t know that well and I’m really rather nervous.

I met them on Reddit and we both had an interest in chastity and castration. We shall see whether there is anything more to this friendship than an interest in kink and body modification!

There are quite a few rather attractive guys walking past this coffee shop wearing what appear to be identical black vests and shorts.

Lunch with a new friend

I arrived at London Waterloo and followed the directions I’d been given to a particular coffee house (Coffee House London) not 200m from the station. I’m read there and had a latte while I waited.

My friend wasn’t late, but he was as bit manic after a poor night’s sleep. I wondered how this day was going to go off I couldn’t get a word in.

He suggested we walk through Clapham and find a coffee shop. We stopped at a couple of bookshops on the way, where I bought a copy of “Untypical” for my brother (whom I must see soon).

Lunch was in this fabulous vegan restaurant (VE Kitchen), where I had a delicious salad – tofu that looked like roast potatoes and tasted incredible! I’m not a vegan, but it did showcase how well it could work!

Conversation dipped in and out of the eunuch and nullo, I think he was a little nervous, but gradually calmed down. I, on the otherhand, was beginning to suffer from the noise and chatter. I was grateful when he took me somewhere quieter to relax and talk.

We talked about all kinds of things: our husbands, kink, chastity, and (of course) the life of a eunuch and it’s impact on one’s relationship and existence.

He had some good advice for seeking to build support for the community; I had planned to write to my MP, and maybe have a face-to-face with her – this thought was that since she is new, that she’ll have no network and will want to bed into the job before considering taking on lending her support for a potentially controversial minority group. Instead, he suggested trying to build a rapport of some kind with the gender identity clinics. As I write this, I think a freedom of information request might be a good initial move.

I really warmed to this fellow. He is kind, generous, and funny. Very intelligent, and a great conversationalist.

He’s not going to pursue castration, but I believe that I really do have a good friend and ally here. Hopefully we’ll meet up again and maybe try a bit of puppy play!