Things That Go Drip In The Night

Oh how I loathe this house of my parents, I think in order to make a noisier house one would have to put in a significant amount of effort. At 5am this morning I was woken by mice eating the muesli bars I have on my bedside table, they rustled around in the packaging and I wondered how they hadn’t knocked the box over. I listened and listened, afraid to turn on the light in-case I was confronted by a giant rat rather than a nice little mouse. After this prolonged listening I discerned that the noise wasn’t coming from the direction of my bed side table, but there’s nothing else in here mice would be interested in and the room is spotless... It was not mice at all but the hot water heater, which is located outside this bedroom. Dad had woken very early for work and the sound I was hearing was the heater doing its job after it had been in use. I guess in the quiet of the night a noise I don’t normally hear is very confusing, what’s worse though is once the unit has been re-filled it drips for a while – very, very annoying.

So that was last night, the night before I was woken at around the same time by a gang of intruders opening and closing all the doors in the house and then repeating the process. I wasn’t scared, possibly still a little too drugged to feel fear. I thought about getting up and confronting the gang but I was warm in my bed and it felt cold out. I then thought, maybe it wasn’t a gang of intruders but that my brother or/and his girlfriend were up to no good, playing tag throughout the house maybe? Eventually I drifted off to sleep again. I later asked mum if she knew what had happened during the night, and she’d heard nothing but informed me that my brother had his window open and often when it’s windy - as it was that morning - the doors rattle, even when closed.

The first night I spent here was better though, no mice or gangs, just my brother and his girlfriend listening to music and talking all night in the next room. Day times are great too with the television up very loud whenever dad is home, I’m genuinely wondering if he has a hearing problem. Maybe I should develop one.

Liberated

*** I am sick of referring to the ex as the ex, so from this post onwards he will be “M” ***

After a lengthy argument with my mother I was allowed to pick up my car from M’s house yesterday. Mum was concerned about me driving with the new cocktail of drugs flowing through my bloodstream - not an unfounded concern, given that I’m exhausted most of the time and am experiencing significant dizzy spells - but I think I’m safe to drive if I’m well rested. It is nice to have my own transport again and the assurance that comes with it, if things become too heated here I can just get in my car and escape for a few hours, or days if need be. M had been taking the car for a run each weekend to keep the battery charged but didn’t get chance last weekend, and so yesterday I got my first experience of jump starting a car.

As well as getting the car I got to spend two hours playing with Lester while Mum packed some of my things, it was so good to see him. We played with his new feather on a stick toy and we played fetch - though it was really throw because he only brought it back twice – we play wrestled and I got my first love scratch in over a month. I don’t know how good the memory of a cat is, I hope he remembers me but I’m not sure. He’s definitely the same cat I left a little over a month ago, so playful and excited by everything (and slightly violent).

The time at M’s house was followed by an appointment with my psychologist who is also out that way, I think she will be invaluable over coming months, on discharge my psychiatrist was very keen for me to re-connect with her. The session was really more of a catch up rather than having any real direction, she is waiting for my discharge papers to arrive before deciding what exactly to do with me.

The Shave

I’m well aware that this post will fall into the category of over share, but you know some of the most intimate details of my mind, so why not my body too! About an hour ago I shaved off a month of armpit hair (I wasn’t aloud razors in hospital). I suffered a bad reaction to the hair removal cream I used on my legs and I prefer to pay other people to wax me than make a mess of it myself, so that meant I just had to let it grow. I think this is the first time I’ve let it grow this long, it actually turned into hair rather than just stubble, I liked it. I’m often annoyed by the unacceptability of the hirsute woman; men chose to shave their faces, but it is rare for them to remove hair from anywhere else on their bodies. Women on the other hand aren’t allowed any hair except that on their heads and pubic region, but thanks to our child like imitation of porn and celebrity culture, even that is increasingly unacceptable. I note that removing hair from the armpits does reduce sweat, and that’s why I’ve done it even though it’s winter and few people are likely to get a glimpse of the area. But I would so like to have hairy legs without feeling like a freak. I’d like to stop stressing about removing any hint of a hair from my face and to have hairy armpits if I want them. I’d like to equate the word Brazilian to a person from Brazil and not an awful trend, which in my eyes infantilises the woman and encourages men to enjoy the child-like, rather than the mature woman before him.

The hirsute woman will remain an aberration unless slowly more and more women remain unshaved and don’t hide it. I’m not sure I have the strength to change the world; I’m not a purple clad, dreadlocked inner suburbanite. I’m just a slightly fat broken down woman currently residing in a dull Western suburb. If I went out with unshaven legs I’d just be taken for a lazy bogan, not a feminist trying to make life a little easier for women all over.

Coffee Date?

I am home now, not at my home, at my parents’. I don’t like it here but I accept that it is better for me than essentially being alone. I should sleep better here; I’ve never encountered a bed as hard as the one I’ve been in the last four nights, my legs have been aching all day and night. I’m not sure my time in hospital achieved much, my doctor admitted that I was mainly there for containment because I didn’t have the ability to keep myself safe. I don’t feel as impulsive as the day I arrived, so I guess that’s an improvement and everyone says my demeanour is a lot better too. I still look in the mirror and see the worn out figure of the woman I once was, I haven’t looked alive since all this happened.

I feel foolish, what sort of pathetic person ends up in hospital over a relationship break up? Me, the sort who has nothing else! I now enter what I expect will be the loneliest time of my life. I am far away from my two close friends who I think I have overworked in the last few weeks, my cat is with the ex, the ex doesn’t love me and his love made everything in the world OK (which I know is the problem). I have to accept that I am at rock bottom and try to climb up rather than give up; which now that I am out of hospital I have far greater ability to do.

If you like me and are wondering if I’d like to join you for a coffee - or tea, I like tea - the answer is yes and the best time to call is around... now! (Although K will not be leaving the house again until tomorrow) What a pathetic creature I am.

Visit

I had a nice night with the ex last night. He came to visit and I got through the whole night without tears, that is until the second he left and the string holding my heart together snapped. About half an hour before his visit a lovely Filipino (?) woman approached me in the hall, stroked my cheek and said I have the most beautiful face, she then walked on, within a few minutes she was walking back the other way, she stopped pointed at me and said “don’t you forget”. I’m more than a little overweight at the moment, but when I’m not fat I’d actually agree with her, I do have a nice face. A nice face isn’t enough to keep a man though, or get one it seems. The ex was my first boyfriend and I didn’t get him until I was 21, hardly anyone had looked twice at me before that. Now I’m 25, 15 kilos heavier and in possession of a fantastic mental illness. Bring on spinsterhood.

Five Mattress Protectors Don’t Make a Hard Bed Soft

I have now been in hospital for 27 days. To put my next paragraph into perspective I will remind you that four of those days were spent in a different hospital on a fairly loud ward.

Except for the very first night at hospital number one - which was spent in an emergency department with buzzers constantly going off and nurses running everywhere - last night was the worst night’s sleep I’ve had since admission! My new room is so loud, my bed is hard and the newer part of the hospital is centrally heated, meaning that it is hotter than I would like at night, but colder than I like to be during the day. I know this is just being fussy, I’m fortunate to have private health insurance, otherwise I’d have spent a few days in a public facility in worse conditions and been discharged once they’d had enough of me. But still I miss the squishy bed, the silence and alterable temperature of my last room. I could have just slept with a chair against the door!

The New, New Room

This morning the woman I share the en suite with confronted me in one of the maze like corridors asking that I stop turning off the bathroom heater after she has turned it on; A reasonable request one may think, but the thing is it’s always on and if I didn’t turn it off no one would. The heat seeps under the door and my room becomes sauna-like, so leaving it on permanently isn’t an option. I couldn’t get a word in with her when I tried to protest and so asked her nurse for the day to try and communicate my opinion to her. Later I made a passing comment to another nurse, asking if this woman was the type of person who would kill me in my sleep over a minor disagreement, the answer was no, but I think the question made more of a statement about me than her... I now have a new room with my own en suite in the newer part of the hospital. It is much better, but unfortunately right in-front of reception and the nurses’ station, so quite loud. Seroquel – my friend – will fix that problem; I have no choice but to sleep.

Church Test One

I haven’t been settled in a church for a very long time now. In 2005 I left the church I’d spent the previous six years in, due to feeling very out of place and somewhat invisible. I didn’t leave and float about looking for somewhere to go; I church hunted in the evenings whilst still attending the morning services where I was. It didn’t take too long for me to find a fantastic church with nearly everything I was looking for (I accept that the perfect church doesn’t exist). I only settled at this church for eight or so months before moving across the city and the drive became too much for me. Since then I have had only short stints in other churches, never finding one that felt even remotely right. Now that I am free of the ex and no longer confined to churches around the Dandenong ranges I have greater searching power. Last night two friends and I visited an Anglican church. The A word always puts me off a church due to many bad experiences; but we were warmly greeted, the congregation was a nice size and seemed friendly, the sermon was good, not fluffy garbage and my pet hate wasn’t there, that being having the band and singers on stage like performers, it’s not a concert!

I’m in no state to give an analysis on the sermon, so you can ask Chantelle for that. I intend to go again next week, which says a lot for it. It may be difficult for me to attend because it appears I’ll be leaving here on Saturday and so will have to travel from the West – not a problem in its self, but the day after discharge may be a little much for me.

Four and Four

We stopped celebrating monthly anniversaries long ago, but today would have been four years and four months; instead it’s just the 19th of June.

A Note on Privacy

I’ve had a few people mention how open I am being about everything by linking this blog to facebook and posting the link fairly regularly etc. I’m not as open as you think. My facebook settings are personalised to prevent a lot of my friends from seeing those particular comments, and the link is also hidden from a lot of people. “Ahh”, you may say “but I can see them and I haven’t seen you in years”; well that means that I view you as someone who would not think less of me because of this blog, and even though I haven’t seen you for a long time I don’t mind you reading this. I also don’t view my-self worthy of being gossip fodder, who would be interested!

I have not listed my name on this blog and I would appreciate anyone who chooses to leave a comment to just refer to me as K. Thank you.

Parents at Santucci's

Santucci’s provided an excellent lunch and more perfect coffee, although we were none too pleased that they forgot our booking and we had to wait for a table to clear. I committed the ultimate coffee sin of ordering decaf. Forgive me, but I first had a non-decaf latte, followed by the decaf latte because I wanted to end my meal with an espresso shot of the single origin Peruvian - which was delightful. My doctor would die if I told him I’d had three coffees, hence the decaf – and it was actually very good for a decaf.

Santucci's

***Not feeling great today - I'll edit this to make it a little better at a later date***

Screw Cafe Bliss with their mediocre coffee and sterile atmosphere, not to mention the surly till tender; when right across the road is Santucci’s. I’d looked at Santucci’s from across the road many a time and thought, “maybe I should give it a shot, but why risk a bad coffee, when I know I can at least get a drinkable one here”. This morning’s Bliss coffee was indeed drinkable, but I was feeling adventurous and afterwards I wandered into Santucci’s, where I was greeted by an inviting and comforting decor and a cake fridge and shelf stocked with cakes clearly made on site (confirmed later). The barista looked like he knew what he was doing and the coffees on the tables looked perfect, sadly I left my wallet at the hospital and didn’t bring enough money for a second coffee, so I had to leave coffee-less. I promptly googled Santucci’s when I got back here and found raving reviews, an epicure listing and a good mention on the coffee snobs website. It’s okay though, a second coffee trip in the same day never hurt anyone! Five whole hours later I made my way back to Toorak Rd eagerly anticipating my perfect coffee and maybe a naughty slice of cake. I was not disappointed. The coffee is supplied by gravity and is freshly ground for each order, the milk was near perfect, just a little hot and nothing at all wrong with the pour. I didn’t watch him make mine, but I saw him put a lot of care into others. I enjoyed my naughty cake – a slice of chocolate, almond and date meringue – simply lovely.

They don’t know yet, but my parents are taking me there for lunch tomorrow.

Spoon Art, an image from Santucci's blog

Cafe Bliss

If you feel like bumping into me whilst I am incarcerated try dropping into Cafe Bliss at 1393 Toorak Rd Camberwell (they say Camberwell, but really it’s Burwood). Cafe Bliss has become my temporary coffee haunt since I’ve been granted unaccompanied leave. I am yet to experience a bad coffee there, I certainly won’t be adding them to my list of favourites, but they are getting me through this tough time. The two baristas who have had the challenge of pleasing me have done a reasonable job. I have been seated in a fabulous position to spy on them, and they care enough to make sure everything is clean and they follow the appropriate steps. I think they just need a little more time to perfect their art – and a better bean wouldn’t hurt. One barista is better than the other, but his milk is a little too hot – not burnt, just not immediately enjoyable; the other provides milk of a good temperature, but a little too frothy and he allows the coffee to sit too long before pouring the milk, which also waited a little too long and as a result separated too much. I can’t offer you a food review, except to mention that they order in their cakes and biscuits, few establishments can be bothered to make their own and it’s really disappointing because it makes all the difference. Being ‘fragile’ at the moment, comfort food is... comforting; so I can give a positive mention to their fries, having experienced them twice.

Lester, My Friend

I’m really missing Lester, my cat, today. I’ve never been away from him for this long and I’m going to have to get used to it because I won’t be living with him anymore. He’s my friend, not just a pet. Hopefully I can visit him regularly without destroying any chance I have of recovering from the break up.

Day 14 (depending on where you start counting)

Please note, this post is being written by a seriously doped K.

Today I have been in this psych hospital for 14 days. It is strange to imagine that only 13 mornings ago I woke up so terrified that my entire body was shaking. In these 14 days I have met some lovely people, who have, of course gone home. I’ve nearly finished making a boxy thing in the craft room - the box is covered in dirt and sticks. I’ve had many sessions with my psychiatrist; a family meeting which revealed the nasty truth to one member; I’ve had less and less contact with my loved one, who I have accepted I will never get back – and I don’t want him back. I’ve been put on a new drug, which seems to be working really well. I’m still a hermit, I spend most of my time in my room writing these silly posts, spying on people through facebook and watching the gazillions of TV shows I have on my hard drive. I know I should be using this time to read, I still have five sixths of the Iliad waiting for me; but my brain is just too mushy to focus – I can’t even absorb a whole newspaper article, usually I can get through everything that catches my eye on The Age’s website. I’ve seen my lovely Chantelle more in this last fortnight than I usually see in a few months. And, I think I’m getting better. Perfection is miles away and I know I will never get there, but here is better than where I was. The main reason for my admission is still a problem, so I don’t think discharge is around the corner, but we’ll see. As you may have read in my previous post, going home is not without its own problems.

Conclusion of post is ummm it’s day 14!

West

There have been talks since a few days after my admission to this hospital of where I would go on discharge. I currently live in Melbourne’s Eastern suburbs in a terrace house, shared with a house mate; we aren’t very close because for the last three years I have hardly stayed there. I’ve predominately been living at my, now ex’s house, in the Dandenong Ranges. My two friends are lovely and I know they care about me but I could never ask to stay with them. I am a needy burden at the moment, not a fun person to have around. I would happily go back to my own house and look after myself but neither my doctor nor parents will hear of it; this leaves me with only one option, to stay with my parents for a while. There are several problems with staying at their house. Third from the top of the problem list is the fact that they live in the Western suburbs. I hate the Western suburbs. I grew up in Werribee and didn’t mind it so much because I didn’t know what I was missing. After four years in the Eastern suburbs, and more so in the ranges with all the trees, hills and wildlife I really feel the difference once I get to the Westgate freeway. There is no beauty near my parents’ home, few birds, brown grass and 20 trees in the entire suburb. Even my cheap terrace rental is on a lovely maple lined street. My complaint seems minor, but beauty – or lack of it - has a real affect on me. I will be an obedient patient and daughter and stay with my family for a short time, but the time will be spent longing for my dearly loved trees and hills. Coffee! I forgot about the coffee, maybe I should just stay in hospital, it’s a seven minute walk to a good Toorak Rd coffee shop...

Butterfly Excrement

Yesterday I encountered the first and hopefully last piece of inane self help material since my arrival at this hospital. It was the poem attached to the bottom of this post. We had to draw or paint something inspired by it; that was easy enough, and so was the talking which followed. After a little more reflection and deciding to trust my initial gut instinct I raised to the group that I felt quite offended by the poems’ use in this setting. It is quite derogatory to people with a mental illness and perhaps would be more appropriate for use with someone who is going through a general struggle, but for people who have already emerged from dozens of cocoons and have been told they face many many more, this is just offensive. About half of the group agreed with me. I’m sharing this not just because people agreed with me, but because it has stuck in my mind and I remain a little shocked that a professional therapist could look past this obvious misappropriation off the poem.

Cocoon (author unknown)
A man found a cocoon of a butterfly. One day he saw a small opening in the cocoon. He sat and watched the butterfly for several hours as it struggled to force its body through that little hole. Then it seemed to stop making any progress. It appeared as if it had gotten as far as it could and could go no further… so, the man decided to help the butterfly.
He took a pair of scissors and snipped off the remaining bit of the cocoon. The butterfly then emerged easily. But, it had a swollen body, and small shrivelled wings. He continued to watch the butterfly, because he expected that, at any moment, the wings would enlarge and expand to support the body, which would contract in time. Neither happened! In fact, the butterfly spent the rest of its life crawling around with a swollen body and shrivelled wings. It was never able to fly.
What he had done in his well intentioned kindness and haste and what he did not understand, was that the restricting cocoon and the struggle required to get through the tiny opening were God’s way of forcing fluid from the body of the butterfly into its wings so that it would be ready for flight once it achieved its freedom from the cocoon.
Sometimes, struggles are exactly what we need in our life. If nature allowed us to go through our life without any obstacles, it would cripple us. We would not be as strong as we could have been, and we could never fly.

Seroquel 2

Written 10.06.2010

I have a love hate relationship with Seroquel. I like that it gives me a very sound sleep; I’ve never had so little trouble falling asleep. It does, however, scare me when it starts to kick in. It is supposed to relax me, and I had a similar feeling when I was new to valium. Unlike valium though, I feel like I’m going to stop breathing because I’m that relaxed. I feel each part of my body becoming more of a burden to support. I always go to bed immediately after taking it because I know that if it kicks in whilst I’m across the hospital from my bedroom that I won’t make it back! I’m feeling much more alert today, yesterday the drug still had a strong daytime groggy effect and it is definitely there today, but less so. I walked out of my therapy session half way through yesterday because I was beginning to fall asleep as we were talking about our art work. It worried a few of the group members that I left but I felt that I only had two options... to fall asleep on my picture or to fall asleep on my bed, I chose bed!

Apology

My head is in five million pieces right now so please excuse posts that make no sense, say in 100 words what could be said in five and so forth. I'll probably come back and edit them when I'm well.

Seroquel

I’m having a hermit day today and just staying in my room apart from meal times, well most of them, I slept through breakfast. I started a new drug three nights ago and because I experienced no side effects on the introductory dose my psychiatrist yesterday decided to triple it! It’s still a low dose, it can go up to 400mg, and I’m only on 75. The new dose gave me a very sound sleep, but I still feel groggy now. No visitors today, I like having them, but just want peace tonight. Tomorrow is a family meeting with the psychiatrist, should be interesting!

There’s some really nice people in here, one of the nurses mentioned that it’s not really a good idea to continue friendships after discharge because they tend to be quite needy people. I agree because I’m one of them, it’s probably why I no longer have a boyfriend and have only two close friends. Miriam and Chantelle, I love you.

The New Room

On Saturday I was fortunate enough to be moved out of the aged care section of the hospital into my very own room. Unfortunately I have to share the en suite with the neighbouring room, but I can live with that. My mum was here at the time of the move and noted that it smelt too much like hospital, this had to be fixed! I’ve always hated aerosols and plug in air fresheners; we agreed that an exposed flame would not be permitted in a psych hospital so this made scented candles a no-go. I’ve been seeing aromatic reed diffusers around a lot recently and I thought they were quite gimmicky - until now. My room smells beautiful, almost as good as if I had an oil burner going (another thing I can’t have due to the open flame issue), it doesn’t look too bad either. It’s not life changing, but having a nice smelling room does lift the mood a little.

The Red Heeler

Written on 03.06.2010

On my first night here I had the most horrific dream I can recall – and I’ve had some doozies! It wasn’t the subject matter that frightened me, but the fact that as part of the dream I woke from the dream, only to find that it was all true.

It was 3:34am when I went back to sleep after being woken by thirst, I had a sip of water and promptly went back into my drug induced sleep. I fell into a dream about a dystopian version of this hospital. Tina, my elderly temporary room-mate and I spoke about the disgusting state of the place and made note of the vermin creeping around the adjoining room. We were joined by my cat Lester, Lester chased after the said vermin and Tina and I followed him outside. It was night time and the garden was eerily landscaped, the deciduous trees were thick trunked and bare, the grass appeared black, but it was mostly dirt. There was not any other hint of life to be seen. By time we caught up to Lester he had caught the rat but he had turned into a red heeler (dog) and started talking to me about the poor state of the hospital. Terrified by the fact that my cat had turned into a dog and was now talking to me I concluded that this was a dream and I woke up in my hospital bed. The time was 3:35am – only one minute after I had last seen the time! I looked around but I was still in this dystopian hospital, the cat-dog was nearby speaking with Tina. Terrified that I was truly mad I asked Tina if she really could hear the cat-dog or if we were both mad. She could hear him just fine and everything was normal. I couldn’t figure out if I had lost my mind completely and this was my new reality, or if I had somehow been trapped in a frightening world where cats turn into talking dogs and one minute feels like 20 at least.

I was woken at 7:30am - for real this time - by the nurse informing me that breakfast was ready. There were no rats, talking dogs or dreary trees. I don’t love this hospital and I look forward to Saturday when lots of people are being discharged and I will get my own room, but at least I’m not mad enough to be talking to red heelers who used to be cats!

First Night

Four days ago I received the glorious gift of mobile broadband, thank you dad! As a result of my five day disconnectedness from the online world (and laziness since then) the following post was written a few days ago. More will follow.

Written on 31.05.2010
I’m not going to go into the details of how I ended up here, but tonight is my first night ever in a psychiatric hospital. I hate it so far. Tomorrow I should be put into a single room but at the moment the hospital is full and they could only give me a double room. As someone who needs peace and quiet at the best of times, not being able to have it now, at the worst of times is particularly hard. The admission process was demeaning and frightening. I was transferred here by ambulance from a normal hospital where I spent the weekend (this hospital doesn’t take weekend admissions). Because of the transfer it meant I was totally alone on arrival. The admissions nurse wasn’t mean, but she could have been nicer, her student nurse was good though, she came and had a nice chat with me later on. Over the three days I spent in the other hospital I’d answered so many questions and been exposed to so many of my anxiety triggers that the last thing I needed today was more intense questioning and that’s exactly what I received.

A welcome interruption to my admissions torture was my psychiatrist (who I usually see here in the consulting suites) popping in to have a chat (interrogation) with me. It may have been difficult but at least it was a familiar face in this jungle of chaos. I asked if I could go home, it’s scary here and I really don’t like having to share a room and there are so many people, they’re everywhere. I was given the choice of staying here or being forcibly admitted to another hospital which isn’t very nice – this one is ‘voluntary’ admissions only. I chose to stay here!

At least the valium and sleeping pills are readily available!

Coward

Anonymity is for cowards, so I guess that makes me a coward... I have just eliminated any parts of this blog which expose my identity, not because I am ashamed of anything I have posted or will soon post, but because I fear that in the future they may be used against me. I’m probably just being paranoid, but I feel safer this way. Most of my readers will have found this blog via my facebook profile, and so will know who I am anyway. The elimination of identity is more-so for future employers and fiendish googlers looking for dirt on me (because you know everyone is!)