There's a dog in the room

Today is a day of forward-looking.

I have spent too much time just lately emotionally knackered by things that I can't alter. I got to the point where I would just sit. And cry. And be utterly useless to all and sundry.

Winston Churchill likened depression (for that is what I have been suffering) to a black dog. Probably a Labrador, to my mind! I can relate to that analogy.

BUT.....with the assistance of bloke, I have gathered my skirts and heaved my aching soul back into a vaguely upright position and am back.

I have no choice but to be back. Daisy needs me. I need me. So here I am, peeping over the parapet to see who I should allow into the castle and who gets the barrel of burning oil tipped over them.

Short list for the oil so far:
Social Workers for failing to do what CAMHS and I requested.

Behavioural Specialist for failing to do anything at all!

See, the thing with Daisy is that she reverts and regresses. Always has. She becomes an animal. Usually (and here's a very tenuous link) a dog. She barks, whines, yelps and whimpers. Oh, and she bites. Hard.

Now, given that information alone, you'd think that a BS (no, I can't be bothered to write it out again!) would be interested in helping me. Us. But, no. Not a chance. I got a letter yesterday from the BS telling me that she was leaving it in the hands of the Social Worker. The same SW who completely failed to find my very easy to find house. The SW who was calling my mobile whilst knocking at my door, only it wasn't MY door.

I have an 8 year old child who is diagnosed with autism/PDA/etc and she is violent, abusive, aggressive and thinks she's a Dalmatian. Just explain to me which part of that statement is not interesting to a BS???

Why am I forced to ask for help, only to be told that I can't have it? Why, must I fight for things? Is there a huge demand on the BS's time and energy? Is she not a dog-lover? How, and this is the most important one, can she assess our situation on ONE line on a form filled out by CAMHS and decide that we aren't helpable. Helpable. I have said it twice, so now it is officially a new word. I am beaten and kicked and bitten and scratched and verbally abused by MY CHILD and yet she doesn't need help? Well, I bloody well do!

As Daisy ages, so do I.
As Daisy gets stronger, I get weaker.
She is going to be taller than me.
She is going to physically hurt me badly enough to end up at A and E.
What on earth do I tell them?

I walked into a door? I fell down the stairs? All those lines that battered women use?

Or do I tell them that my child did this to me?
There is a very high percentage of PDA people who are in secure units...some for this very reason. Society, it seems does not know how to deal with a PDA person, so true to form, they are locked away. We used to do this to unmarried pregnant women, and epileptics and anyone else that society in general couldn't deal with. I thought that the Dickensian approach had died out, but it is still alive and kicking. Where is the compassion? The violence is caused by fear and anxiety and frustration. It's not malicious, it's not even remembered after the event. It's lashing out. It's not a reason to be institutionalised. Yet, I feel that I am being left to travel down that road, as my concerns and requests are being not ignored, but are being allowed to go unheeded.

Tomorrow, I need to make some phone calls.