Yesterday was a breakthrough. It wasn’t achieved in the way I would have liked but a breakthrough never the less.
As I’m reflecting on this I’m conscious of how it plays to the script of cleanliness, hence my reluctance yesterday to write it down.
The self neglect results in not washing and finally a bath yesterday after maybe somewhere in the region of two months.
I lost my temper, told her to get out of bed and have a bath and this is what I mean by being sucked in to an expected cycle of abuse. Shouting is not ok.
My son and I were talking, he sees it and calls it out for what it is.
I’m not a therapist, she’s my cousin yet here I am doing the work of others. It’s unethical to work with family members in this way. Yet here I am because there is no one else. Why has she not been offered CBT? We’re struggling with those negative, corrosive thoughts.
Despite being known to all these different services there is no meaningful help. Here I am stuck in this gap.
I don’t want to be here. Yet here I am. It’s different working with complete strangers. The family baggage doesn’t come along. Perhaps I’ve got that wrong.
Nevertheless the outcome was a bath but what damage does it do to both of us, reigniting cycles of abuse.
Only to discover there are no clean clothes. At least the washing is now done.
Her toes are black she tells me so I rush over. Perhaps I should mention I did a risk assessment, before the bath, mitigating risk. Aware of how this might sound. Facilitating the least restrictive option, trying to encourage self care and confidence.
Discussing skin care for the dry skin, preventing problems later on.
Toe nails aren’t great. Need some attention, the blackness is bruising, nails damaged perhaps from the previous fall.
I’ve booked a chiropodist appointment. As far as I know it isn’t available on the NHS, though why it wouldn’t be preventing problems and treating early, picking up issues early seems a false economy to me. £30
I’m reminded of the foot care provided by homeless hope caring for the sore feet of those who are forced to live on the streets. Those who, like us, those with power choose to ignore, pretend don’t exist. The fifteen hungry people, queuing waiting for their sandwiches, their benevolent crumbs. Sometimes I hate this country that I was born into, the UK, where some people matter and some people don’t. But I did get to have a hug with someone I haven’t seen for ages, with a plan to meet up. (We’ll carry on with the masks and generally the social distancing and our hug was outside).
I felt manipulated yesterday. The warden mentioned this before, she too struggling with this. But if manipulation is the only way you’ve had your needs met it seems protective, so we’ll work with it. Already the boundary setting that the friend sets has helped. Now I see it as containment, a two way street. I’m learning. I should have listened more to the friend.
As I was cycling along the seafront I came to the end of the cycle lane, carried on, mindful of my safety and where I needed to be. It reminded me of other times I’d broken the rules.
Mindful of my grandad who was fined a week’s wages for cycling on the path, mindful of a thread I’d read, an excerpt of living while black ( https://www.hive.co.uk/Search/Keyword?keyword=Living%20while%20black&productType=0 ) How some parents teach their children how to assimilate.
How the rules that were written were never written for me. Did you see the law project is in court today about our government procurement of PPE.
I remember how I’d go home wanting the latest thing and Dad would say “would you stick your head in the oven if they told you too?”
Talking of history the panic at my leaving is historic, unrelated to now. I reassure and remind. Today has been difficult. The negativity too much but we’ve rearranged the chiropody, had hair done, made an appointment to learn about zoom with someone more patient than me, thinking about the GP visit tomorrow. Trying to retain focus on the the things planned for the rest of the day, trying to resist that natural urge she has for sucking back to negativity, point out a pretty ceramic carefully placed, the pretty gardens, other people sitting alone.
I’ve had too many doses this week. Stretching beyond reserves again trying to recognise it early, not that it matters there is no one else. That promised call of care co ordination didn’t come.
Happened to see the relative of someone I knew, I waved, they were over the road but they squinted but couldn’t see. Now I remember how they didn’t get the space to go to the opticians, no respite, couldn’t get their bladder problems fixed. How they had so much on their plate caring for their husband and their son. Perhaps their relative has died now, freeing up some space, reflecting on the violence of not receiving adequate care.
In other news the house Zomba has returned. It’s in St Paul’s church hall, too light for the dancing but at least there’s adequate ventilation. Sounds like an all ability thing. The hairdresser was saying how they might have over done it a bit, feeling the normal ache of when you’ve exercised muscles that haven’t been used so much for a while. Talked about how it was so much fun so worth this morning’s ache.
Anyway that’s me for now. Better get on but I’ll leave you with the image that I witnessed last night. My husband dancing round the kitchen, bunny in arms to the world’s most relaxing music. Apparently that’s a thing. Now to find it…oh, bin collection.