Today is World Mental Health Day so it seems somehow fitting that that I am, once again, blogging from my hospital bed. How did I end up here again? Perhaps I am forever doomed to mark the changing seasons with a trip to my local acute psychiatric ward for I have done spring, summer and now autumn.
Quite simply I was losing the battle for stability, I had high days and low days but mainly low days culminating in some very low days, until, on Friday I was so low that there seemed only one answer to the way I was feeling and I planned to take my own life.
Before my own encounter with depression- a depression so severe it brings with it a tangible physical pain, I saw suicide as a selfish act, an act perpetrated by those who didn’t have or didn’t want support; I saw it as a choice.
I wish I was skilled enough with the written word to express just how desperate I was, I wish I could describe that pain with words, the gaping emptiness, the crushing sadness, the fearlessness of death and the peace it would bring. I completely understand how one can feel that simply by not being here any more the pain will be over. I now see how easily one can answer all the questions the prospect of suicide raises- what about the children, friends, family?
My justification was simple, I wasn’t getting any better, my life was a mess, I was unable to do all the things I should be doing or any of the things I wanted to do. My mental illness was preventing me from being the parent, employee, friend and person I wanted and felt I should be.
So persuaded by my fantastic CPN (who must wonder why these things always happen at 4.30pm on Fridays) I, once again, checked into hospital “to keep me safe” and here I am.
I have had a slight medication tweak and not enough tea; again I should see the doctor on Tuesday to discuss what to do next. The doctor who did my admission on Friday night thinks all my health professionals need to get together to “re-strategise”. Bless, he’s obviously new.
This morning I woke- early and with that nervous excitement that so often indicates a swift change in mood. I’ll take it, thanks.
I almost forgot to say, the icing on the cake is that last week I lost my driving licence as I haven’t been stable for 3 months (or 3 minutes). I’d like to point out that DVLA were happy for me to drive for the 3 months it took to gather the reports and in fact don’t require me to stop until the 13th of October- something just doesn’t add up.
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Time for T
I feel like I’ve lost 9 months of my life. When I look back I can see snippets but I really have no idea where all that time has gone. However in those 9 months my life has changed immeasurably and forever.
I now face the prospect of rebuilding my life and fitting in all the extra stuff that mental illness and the pursuit of good mental health requires. I don’t really know where to start.
I know from previous experience that my usual rush to ‘get back to normal’ doesn’t help so I’m mindful to avoid it but then I’m left with “what do I do?”
Advice from others is always the same- take it easy, don’t rush, find new activities to fill my time. The problem is I don’t want new activities; I want to be able to do the old ones. I suppose to be fair I haven’t tried many new activities though I did have one foisted upon my by the occupational therapist at the hospital.
Occupational therapy is hard to define; even the occupational therapists themselves seem to struggle to define their purpose. I initially thought the aim was to prepare me in some way for the world of work again, I envisaged reading newspapers, maybe writing the odd newsletter or press release- but no, I was to make a greetings card.
I am not entirely against expressing myself artistically, indeed I drew and painted feverishly during my manic episodes, but cutting out stuff and sticking it to a card was not something I ever wanted to do so being made to do it for an hour whilst two strangers heaped false praise on my pitiful effort was cringingly awful.
I was asked what I thought of the finished item so I replied honestly, as I do, “I think it’s shit” (because it was). The ‘art’ session did nothing for my self-esteem though I did gain a hilariously tacky gift for a much-loved friend- in it I wrote “they forced me to make this, lots of love, Zoë xxx”
Not being ones to give up easily, much like the stalkers of the psychiatric ward, OT have also offered me the chance to do some cooking, who they think caters for the dietary needs of my children is beyond me, indeed one of the upsides of being in hospital is that there is no cooking.
If OT really wanted to help they could’ve made sure my sick note for work was up to date, helped fill in my council tax benefit form, sourced school uniforms online, ensured I saw the doctor when he was on the ward, even just made me a cup of tea and stopped for a chat.
However in an environment where any kind of therapy is a rarity perhaps the OT department should be congratulated, at least they try, even if it is a little misguided.
I have also started CBT- cognitive behavioural therapy; you can Google it for a number of explanations. As far as I can tell CBT is aimed at changing the way I think but without addressing why I think that way in the first place. I’ve had 2 sessions and so far all I can see is that I react in the wrong way to almost every situation! I clearly have a lot of work to do.
The good news is that this work will be done “on the outside” as I hope to be discharged from the hospital on Tuesday. I finally feel well enough to go home for good and this time I hope it is for good.
I now face the prospect of rebuilding my life and fitting in all the extra stuff that mental illness and the pursuit of good mental health requires. I don’t really know where to start.
I know from previous experience that my usual rush to ‘get back to normal’ doesn’t help so I’m mindful to avoid it but then I’m left with “what do I do?”
Advice from others is always the same- take it easy, don’t rush, find new activities to fill my time. The problem is I don’t want new activities; I want to be able to do the old ones. I suppose to be fair I haven’t tried many new activities though I did have one foisted upon my by the occupational therapist at the hospital.
Occupational therapy is hard to define; even the occupational therapists themselves seem to struggle to define their purpose. I initially thought the aim was to prepare me in some way for the world of work again, I envisaged reading newspapers, maybe writing the odd newsletter or press release- but no, I was to make a greetings card.
I am not entirely against expressing myself artistically, indeed I drew and painted feverishly during my manic episodes, but cutting out stuff and sticking it to a card was not something I ever wanted to do so being made to do it for an hour whilst two strangers heaped false praise on my pitiful effort was cringingly awful.
I was asked what I thought of the finished item so I replied honestly, as I do, “I think it’s shit” (because it was). The ‘art’ session did nothing for my self-esteem though I did gain a hilariously tacky gift for a much-loved friend- in it I wrote “they forced me to make this, lots of love, Zoë xxx”
Not being ones to give up easily, much like the stalkers of the psychiatric ward, OT have also offered me the chance to do some cooking, who they think caters for the dietary needs of my children is beyond me, indeed one of the upsides of being in hospital is that there is no cooking.
If OT really wanted to help they could’ve made sure my sick note for work was up to date, helped fill in my council tax benefit form, sourced school uniforms online, ensured I saw the doctor when he was on the ward, even just made me a cup of tea and stopped for a chat.
However in an environment where any kind of therapy is a rarity perhaps the OT department should be congratulated, at least they try, even if it is a little misguided.
I have also started CBT- cognitive behavioural therapy; you can Google it for a number of explanations. As far as I can tell CBT is aimed at changing the way I think but without addressing why I think that way in the first place. I’ve had 2 sessions and so far all I can see is that I react in the wrong way to almost every situation! I clearly have a lot of work to do.
The good news is that this work will be done “on the outside” as I hope to be discharged from the hospital on Tuesday. I finally feel well enough to go home for good and this time I hope it is for good.
Day Hospital Disaster
Today I went to a local psychiatric day hospital; it was my first day of attendance and my last.
I got collected by the ‘bus’ (ambulance) later than expected this morning- I was irked but resolved to forgive.
I arrived and followed the crowd by signing in.
I stood alone in the hallway and after 5 minutes or so plucked up the courage to go into the office and speak to the woman who had spent the previous 5 minutes watching me stand there, tearing up. I said “this is my first day and I don’t know what to do”. She showed me to the ‘sitting room’ and said “just go in here a nurse will be along shortly”. So, I did.
I sat, and sat, I went outside and walked laps of the garden then came back in and sat some more.
I’d sat for just short of an hour when a man from the local authority came in to talk about ‘home safety’ he was introduced by a member of nursing staff who then left. The man offered “home safety checks for vulnerable people like yourselves, we don’t discriminate” he reassured the group. The home safety check on offer included looking for trip hazards and dodgy electrical cables “stuck together with insulating tape”.
I left.
I am acutely aware that I am capable of being very judgemental so I tried very hard this morning to give the day hospital a fair chance. I didn’t want to go but the lure of actual therapy; maybe someone to talk to, someone to listen and some help to get me back on my feet proved enough to get me in there- and that was what was promised.
Maybe if I’d stuck around until after the home safety talk I would’ve got something out of it but there is only so long I can sit and feel ignored. I can sit at home and ignore my emotional needs in comfort.
I won’t be going back.
I am a 34 year (and 364 days) old woman with a job and family I need to get back to. My home is safe, for now- I have a mortgage payment holiday in place.
Trip hazards and dodgy wiring are way down my list of priorities somewhere after getting my medication right and being able to care for all my own children on my own again. In fact I think trip hazards and dodgy wiring come way, way down the list.
I am trying very hard not to rush myself into a false recovery but I don’t feel I have much option. I’m not going to get the therapy I want and feel I need I just have to hope that I can get and stay healthy or get rich enough to go private next time
I got collected by the ‘bus’ (ambulance) later than expected this morning- I was irked but resolved to forgive.
I arrived and followed the crowd by signing in.
I stood alone in the hallway and after 5 minutes or so plucked up the courage to go into the office and speak to the woman who had spent the previous 5 minutes watching me stand there, tearing up. I said “this is my first day and I don’t know what to do”. She showed me to the ‘sitting room’ and said “just go in here a nurse will be along shortly”. So, I did.
I sat, and sat, I went outside and walked laps of the garden then came back in and sat some more.
I’d sat for just short of an hour when a man from the local authority came in to talk about ‘home safety’ he was introduced by a member of nursing staff who then left. The man offered “home safety checks for vulnerable people like yourselves, we don’t discriminate” he reassured the group. The home safety check on offer included looking for trip hazards and dodgy electrical cables “stuck together with insulating tape”.
I left.
I am acutely aware that I am capable of being very judgemental so I tried very hard this morning to give the day hospital a fair chance. I didn’t want to go but the lure of actual therapy; maybe someone to talk to, someone to listen and some help to get me back on my feet proved enough to get me in there- and that was what was promised.
Maybe if I’d stuck around until after the home safety talk I would’ve got something out of it but there is only so long I can sit and feel ignored. I can sit at home and ignore my emotional needs in comfort.
I won’t be going back.
I am a 34 year (and 364 days) old woman with a job and family I need to get back to. My home is safe, for now- I have a mortgage payment holiday in place.
Trip hazards and dodgy wiring are way down my list of priorities somewhere after getting my medication right and being able to care for all my own children on my own again. In fact I think trip hazards and dodgy wiring come way, way down the list.
I am trying very hard not to rush myself into a false recovery but I don’t feel I have much option. I’m not going to get the therapy I want and feel I need I just have to hope that I can get and stay healthy or get rich enough to go private next time
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