Dumped Again

I'm sorry this blog has taken on more of a diary feel of late, I'm not too sure what to do with it. I want to write about my adventure with BPD and that kind of necessitates the diary tone but I don't like it.

I have been out of hospital since Wednesday - a public one close to my Mum's home. I was sectioned on Monday for smuggling a knife into the hospital for a suicide attempt. I surrendered it before doing anything, but merely having it was enough to freak out the nurses and cause my doctor to throw his hands in the air and give up on me. He has requested a few months without me and when he takes me back he wants to do so with the help of a case manager. The CAT team have visited me twice since my discharge and are dealing with the case management referral. In the meantime I will hopefully be given a new private psychiatrist from one of the only hospitals left open to me, my GP wrote several referrals for me when I saw her on Thursday, she's amazing, I'm very lucky to have a GP as capable and caring as her.

It has been suggested to me that I write about the good stuff in my life, not just the crap; so here's the few recent good events.

On Sunday I attended church for the first time in almost two months. I was on coffee for our welcoming ministry prior to the service so I arrived over an hour early. I enjoy making coffee even if it is only on a Sunbeam machine. Ten minutes into the service I felt the need to leave and maybe even go to an emergency department due to strong suicidal urges and the recurring feeling of inferiority I get at church. As I approached the door a friend caught me and spent the next 40 minutes talking very harshly to me about trying more to help myself and having greater consideration for those in my life who care about me. It was a hard conversation, and a number of times I wanted to either walk away or hit her, but I think she actually said some things I needed to hear. By time we finished talking the service was nearing the end so we sat down to a cup of tea and watched from the foyer. Now for the good... After the service I was not left alone for more than 30 seconds, so many people wanted to speak to me and seemed to genuinely care about me. I got to catch up with some people I hadn't seen since prior to my admission and also with those who came to visit me. I had some nice talks and was even invited to a couple's house for dinner but I couldn't go because I was getting tired and have a long drive back to my Mum's. I left church feeling cared for and glad to have been prevented from leaving earlier.

Another good event:
I spent part of the weekend at Mum's holiday home with my Grandad and Step-Grandmother who are visiting from Mexico. We had a lovely meal and wine at a local winery and enjoyed browsing in the few shops dotted around the place. They go home on Wednesday, it has been nice seeing them but I have no real attachment to them as none of my relatives have been part of my life, having grown up on the opposite side of the world to all of them.

It is currently 6:05am. I haven't slept a wink tonight due to a long afternoon nap necessitated by a high Seroquel dose. My choice was Seroquel or chancing what I would do to myself. My current suicidal urges are frightening, they feel different to what I'm used to, they're darker and feel like they're coming from an outside force rather than a mere thought. I'm stuck at the moment, I can't go to either of the private hospitals I usually attend, I don't want to go public because it's a scary environment, you get little help and if you put a foot wrong they have terrifying isolation rooms to place you in - I'm claustrophobic and being locked in one of them is high on my list of fears.

It may not come across but I do actually want to get better. I was excited about Schema Therapy because I though there was a chance it would work. I now can't do it until they start the next course because you need to be the current patient of one of the hospital's psychiatrists and mine has temporarily dumped me. I just wish he'd given me warning that he was struggling with me; apparently the knife incident was the straw that broke the camel's back, if I'd known it was getting close I could have tried to change my behaviours. I like my doctor and I value the help he's given me, I really would have tried to keep him.

To finish on a different note: I've been terribly clucky lately and would love to find some random (intelligent, educated, creative and at least a little good looking) man to get me pregnant and then never see again - unless he actually wanted a baby and a crazy woman, then maybe I could have a happily ever after family life. Sadly being a Christian doesn't really gel with random sex, sperm donation or single parenting - sperm donation within a marriage where the husband is having difficulty is probably not so frowned upon but I don't know the ins and outs of Christian reproduction rules. Maybe it's time for me to lose the 21 kilos I need to bring me down to a healthy BMI, try to be a little less insane and see if any Christian men look at me twice. I'd made a good start on the weight prior to my hospital admission, I was swimming several times a week and not eating too badly, I've lost 29kg in the last six months(ish) but I put on 40 due to Seroquel - I know I'm back on it, but it's the only thing that really works for me and I'm being careful this time, even weighing myself every day.

Thank-you for reading this epic post. The sun has risen and I think I'll have another attempt at this sleep thing. 6:36am!

I can't sedate you

Five weeks and two days in four hospitals, most of that time spent in the private I don't usually get to go to as my psych works out of a different one. I'm having more ECT,  not sure how many are left.  I'm currently on 4mg of Lorazepam, 100mg  of Seroquel, 15mg Imovane and I think 1mg of Xanax. I still feel angry, violent (don't worry only towards me) and super impulsive. I left the hospital for the second time without leave today, only this time I didn't get caught. I bought sharps and put them to use when I got back - nothing serious and they've been surrendered now. I have a few fears around suicide, mainly to do with eternity. I'm sure eternity in hell would be much worse than what I'm living with now. But maybe God would still accept me. Big risk.

Please Snore Louder

I'll be moving to a private room in the morning. For now I have to put up with my roommate who sleeps with the TV on, snores and wakes up every 20ish minutes for a horrible coughing fit. I've just had my dressing gown belt taken off me as a nurse walked in to find me making a noose out of it. I was just about to give up trying and google noose making instructions as my efforts were quite poor. I've taken all the medication I'm written up for and I'm wide awake with a head ache and obviously, by the noose making - suicidal feelings. I wish I had access to a gun or a shitload of seroquel, they're the best two exit methods in my opinion. My seroquel overdose wasn't quite big enough to kill me but came close and the falling asleep part was fine, just waking wasn't too nice and that wouldn't be a problem with a big enough dose.

The head of nursing just came to talk to me. I now have to spend the night in the lounge which is just in front of the nurses station, thankfully there are no beds in ICU. I would refuse to go back there if there were.

My New Room Smells

I’m writing and it’s not 4am, let’s see how this goes…

I had 23 hours in ICU, ending at 10pm last night, thankfully my doctor didn’t think I needed to be in there. There’s a bit of self sabotage going on, I was given unescorted leave and told home time was approaching in about a week, so what do I do? Buy razor blades of course and then instead of using them inform a nurse that I have them and want to slit my throat. I do this a lot, get suicidal make some gestures and then call for help. I could/should have jumped off that building but instead I called my nurse and help arrived shortly after. Every time I’ve taken an overdose I’ve taken myself to hospital and I’ve never made any really deep cuts, I’ve only hit a vein once. I see progress and then ruin things. Maybe I don’t want to go home; I get constant attention in hospital, I see my doctor every second day, nurses enquire about my wellbeing twice a day and I’m surrounded by people who ‘get me’ – not that I talk to that many of them. Doctor and I came up with a plan to conquer this cycle. Home on Sunday regardless of what I do (within reason) and leave from tomorrow also regardless of what I do.

I think I’m going to live until I’m 80 and be miserable for the whole time.

5:21

I forgot I'd written the last post, so some of this you already know. Sorry.

I write this at 2:55am Sunday 24^th March from Melbourne’s finest psychiatric hospital. I have been here 17 nights, although my total hospitalisation has been 26 days in five different hospitals!

It would appear that I am not cut out for teaching; the stress surrounding starting the course, finding my way around a humungous campus; meeting new people and not to mention the impending work brought my psychiatric health to the lowest point it had been at in many months. My coping mechanism – cutting of course! The aftermath of a little self-harm I can cope with at home, but the increasing suicidal urges I thought warranted a late night GP visit. There is a clinic near my Mum’s home which is open until midnight; I arrived around 10:30pm and left in an ambulance at 12:30am. The GP didn’t feel comfortable letting a suicidal girl who had just been slicing up her thighs go on her merry way. I then got to wait for an hour in emergency, where I was the only person wearing shoes, sure there were only five of us in there, but still, when did shoes become unnecessary?

When I was finally seen to at the hospital I was given a tetanus shot, had my wounds dressed, was assessed by a psych nurse and sent on my merry way with instructions to contact my usual hospital in the morning. Morning came and still feeling keen to end it all I was admitted later in the day. It would seem that my doctor didn’t quite understand the severity of the situation as he granted me unescorted leave from the following day. This means coffee! Great! There’s a magnificent café about a four-minute walk from the hospital, so off for coffee I went. Coffee was followed by some errands and impulse shopping, a lovely jumper and a beautiful, yet practical pair of shoes which I thought would be suitable for teaching rounds; as someone who has trouble finding nice, yet comfortable shoes I confess to buying the beige ones and putting the black on lay-by, a little too expensive to buy them both at once. Somewhere between buying the jumper and the shoes my mood dropped and I thought maybe throwing my-self in front of a tram would be a great idea. No. Trams don’t move very fast, it would probably cause serious injury, maybe life long disability and trauma for the driver and witnesses, best to leave that idea alone. Go for a walk. Mood drops a little more. How else could I die on a street packed with shoppers, business people and the occasional beggar? I can’t; let’s just go back to the hospital; my leave time is almost up anyway.

There are flats across the road from the hospital, some of them very new and rather high but access must be restricted to residents and buzzed up guests, a random K surely couldn’t get to the top floor balcony with the press of a lift button, it must require a swipe card, key, password. No. K who is terrified of lifts summoned it to the ground, entered, pressed “9” and up up up she went. Not a nice view, but these are council flats, not somewhere you live if you can afford luxurious scenery. How strange, the lift opens onto a balcony, not a hallway lined with doors, just a ledge with doors on one side and a 9 level drop on the other. Relief. A little fear. A little confusion. Determination, I can end it all now with no room for error. But maybe there’s another solution that doesn’t mean dying right now; I don’t know what it is, maybe my nurse will know. Call the clinic “Can I please talk to the nurse appointed to me (K) today?” to the nurse “I don’t know what to do. I’m on a 9^th floor balcony ready to jump but I’m not sure if I should… No I don’t want to come down, I just don’t know what to do, yes you can see me from the hospital, I’m only across the road. No I don’t want to come down.” Hang up. I look over the edge some more, it really isn’t that high, would it definitely kill me? What if it just paralyzed me and left me mentally impaired too, no, surely 9 stories is high enough for death. I can see a few nurses gathering across the road to look at me so I move to the other end of the balcony, there’s a smaller ledge there, one out of their line of sight. A woman exits one of the flats and asks what I’m doing, “Just came up to admire the view” I lie in my most polite tone. I walk back to the bigger ledge, sure the nurses can see me, but it’s further away from the woman. My phone rings “K, come down” I hang up. A police officer appears at the bottom of the building just to watch. I grab my shopping bag filled with shoes and a jumper and decide to see how long it would take to hit the ground. “Don’t drop that” shouts the officer. I drop it and watch in amazement as it drifts slightly to the left as it falls. I think weighing much more than a pair of shoes and a jumper I may fall faster and straighter.

I lean over the edge and just stare at the ground; can I do it? I want to die, there’s nothing in my life coaxing me to continue. I was a little excited about starting this new course and having a real job at the end of it, but the course administrators did a grand job of scaring the shit out of me two days prior; “you’re not education students, you’re pre-service teachers” WTF!!! And really do I want to teach a class where 90% of the kids don’t want to be there, 10% do and only 5% are any good? That’s my experience of high school drama and what if I can’t get a drama position and I have to teach English. This 9 story plunge looks pretty good.

“Hello Mr. police officer, come to keep me company have you? No, I will not come down with you, but thanks for telling that nosey woman to go inside.” We stand admiring the view/drop for a while, he tries to talk me down, he’s quite nice about it. His colleague joins us. “Step away from the edge.” “No.” This conversation continues for quite some time, eventually I decide to obey, I still don’t want to live but something in me must want to, I did after all call my nurse and surely I didn’t think she’d ignore the situation. Down we go, but not off the edge of the balcony, just in the lift – my shopping got all the thrills. I pick up the bag and surprisingly my shoes are unharmed, the box is a little worse for wear.

Apparently trying to jump off a building doesn’t get you walked across the road to your minimal security private psychiatric hospital; it gets you a police car ride to the nearest public hospital with a psych ward. The police hang around for a little while – paper work I assume – while I sit on a bed with a fluorescent pink blanket in an empty grey room with a security guard at the door. Four hours pass, thankfully I have my phone and can speak to a couple of friends, they are very helpful. Psych assessment performed in this cell–like room. Time to move me up to the psych ward, it stinks of urine, the whole ward. Here I spend the next six nights, no unaccompanied leave allowed, which I suppose is reasonable given what happened last time I was allowed out alone. Time passes quite fast, I have two laptops (I need to buy a portable hard drive so I can stop using the old laptop, the new one is nearly full) so I watch episode after episode of Six Feet Under – I’ve seen them all before but thanks to ECT I remember nothing at all. I think my friends realise I’m in quite a bad situation, as more of them than usual come to visit me, some even come more than once. As well as bringing books and their lovely selves they allow me to escape the urine stinking ward for a little while. We go for walks, get coffee, even dinner on one occasion. Unlike any other hospital I’ve been in the nurses are also willing to escort me down the road for a coffee on days I’m not expecting visitors and am desperate for some air. For the duration of my stay I ask every day if I can return to the hospital I came from or its sister hospital which has an ICU ward I could go in if they didn’t feel comfortable with me on an open ward. The hospital I came from is a little uneasy about taking me back, plus they’re full. The other hospital is massive and my doctor can treat patients there too (though I don’t think he appreciates the extra driving it means for him) so after six days inhaling urine fumes I am moved to a private room in the nicest ward in the nicest hospital I’ve been in. Sometimes the food here is even good, most of the time it’s okay, but sometimes it’s actually good!

All was going swimmingly until I decided to hang myself and then decided no that’s a bad idea, I’ll ask a nurse for help instead. Oh ICU is full, that’s a shame, sedatives aren’t working so you’re sending me to an emergency department; great! Third ambulance ride in 10(ish) days night spent in a very noisy short stay unit of a local (not psych) hospital, thankfully I brought ear plugs. The following day I returned here after multiple psych assessments declaring me safe enough to be in a psych hospital and not stuck in a medical hospital. Fourth ambulance ride in 11(ish) days. I return to the same ward only to be placed in a shared room as the toilet in my room isn’t flushing properly. I can put up with that for a night until the following day when the plumber is coming. The plumber comes and I’m not given my room back because I’m too high risk and will be safer sharing. Fuck that! I was told I’d have it back, I’m getting it back! So to the nursing manager I go and the room is mine again… For a few days; suicidal urges return and this time there is a bed in ICU so off I go leaving most of my stuff behind, as it isn’t expected to be a long stay. ICU is boring, it’s a small, locked ward, you can’t even go to the dining room, meals come to you. Two nights pass and my doctor deems me well enough to return to the open ward but my room has been taken and I’m put in a shared room, not such a terrible thing as there’s no one in the other half of it, for one night. On Thursday I am joined by R; a lovely girl who I really like -except for her snoring and her refusal to flush the toilet; thankfully she always puts the lid down so I just flush before use and I don’t have to look at her waste.

Somewhere in all this I’ve had four sessions of ECT, after the third I forgot why I was in hospital; the building / police saga, the whole lot but it came back with a little prompting. My doctor thinks the ECT has lifted my mood and I think he’s right, but I’m still getting strong urges to self-harm, not so much to suicide, though it does cross my mind a few times most nights. I’m writing this now (at 5:04am) because I was lying in bed thinking about pouring boiling water all over my arm but I really don’t want to tonight, it’s my lovely friend’s baby shower tomorrow (well today) and I’ve been given extra leave so I can go, I don’t want to either lose my leave or rock up to the party with a bright red arm. I should be out of hospital by next weekend, probably sooner – Dr doesn’t think keeping me here just for self-harm risk is worth it, the worst of the suicidal-ideation is over (I think) so maybe home time it is.

It has taken me over two hours to write and proof read this, do excuse the errors. I don’t proof read well at 5am.

Today is two months since my dad died. Wow, I don't know how that happened.

9

Day five in the worst public psych ward I’ve encountered; everywhere smells of urine, even the bedroom. The people are mostly scary and I only have escorted leave, which makes the beautiful park with big, old trees across the road inaccessible. Since Friday attempts have been made at getting me into a private hospital, but they have no beds. The hospital I usually go to were unwilling to take me back, but my doctor might have talked them round, I’ll find out this afternoon.

A little backstory:

On Tuesday night, following the tradition of the previous two nights I cut my leg – a lot. I went to see random GP #873 incase I needed sutures and because I was feeling quite suicidal. She was reluctant to let me go home so sent for an ambulance to take me to the local emergency department. There I had my wounds dresses, received a tetanus shot and spoke with the psych triage nurse for a while. At 4am I caught a taxi home with the instructions to arrange a private admission in the morning.

Admission organized, bed available same day, arrived at 5pm. I saw my doctor around 8 and we planned how we would settle me down and prepare me for starting uni on Monday – which I was terrified of. We decided I’d bring my car to the hospital and when Monday came I would go to uni from the hospital and return after my classes. Good plan; until I destroyed it. Thursday came and, having been granted leave I went out for coffee and some shopping, I was very proud to have purchased a medium sized jumper and I bought two pairs of the same shoes for teaching rounds – one in beige, the other black. I can’t find shoes I both like and find comfortable, so leave me alone! As I was out and about my mood slowly dropped dropped dropped until I thought the approaching tram looked like a good end to my pain. I decided the tram was too slow and would seriously injure, but not kill me. I looked at the skyline, noticing plenty of tall buildings I could leap from, none of them accessible. Some flats have recently been built opposite the hospital and I was pretty sure they had balconies. I made my way back to the hospital on the wrong side of the road from what should have been my destination. Timidly I entered the estate and assessed which of the buildings would best meet my needs. I chose one of the new ones towards the back of the estate. Surely though I wouldn’t be able to get up there, there would be a swipe card system or pin so only residents and guests could get up there – no. The lift comes, overcoming my fear of lifts I enter and push “9”, the top level. The doors open onto a windy passage with doors on one side and a drop on the other. I stand leaning on the railing assessing the drop. I am not afraid; I can jump. Something in me thinks there’s a better option that I don’t have to jump. So I call the hospital and ask to speak to my contact nurse, hoping she can tell me what this better option is. She tells me to come down. No. She calls the police. I continue to assess the drop, throwing my new shoes and jumper over the edge just to watch them fall, acknowledging that I would fall much faster but still just wanting to see something go over the edge. They drift to the left and land with a thud. It is very quiet, there is no one around for them to land on.

A police man exits the lift and starts to talk to me. I just look over the rail, I could jump, I’m not afraid I’m not angry I’m not upset. I am nothing. The police man’s partner joins us. After a while we all go down in the lift, I pick up my shoes, which are fine, and we go for a ride in a police car to an interesting hospital. I am put in a grey room with nothing but a bed. A security guard sits by the door with my possessions, I’m allowed my phone, not that there is any reception but the games help pass the five hours. I talk to two friends on a phone given to me by a nurse. Psychiatric assessment by someone. Sent up to the psych ward where I remain.

Your Day

Two Seroquel before bed because you have to get up early and can’t afford to wait four hours for sleep to come naturally, plus your anxiety picks up as soon as the lights go out and your throat closes up, your muscles spasm and your limbs go numb. Sleep doesn’t come even with the drugs, the drugs you’re only supposed to take a couple of times a week because last time you took a lot of them they made you put on 40 kilos, you’ve gained two kilos since starting them again but you don’t know if it’s the drugs or laziness because you really aren’t being selective with what you allow to pass your lips, plus you’re grieving, maybe it’s normal to give in to your every desire when you’ve just lost your father. Sleep comes but it’s hot and someone has turned off the air-conditioning because they can’t sleep with it on, but you can’t sleep when your body temperature is 800 degrees. You fall asleep again and this time you stay there until the alarm chimes at 7, you turn it off and it sounds again at 7:05 and again at 7:07. Therapy starts at 9:30 in an inner city suburb. You live near three schools which congest the roads in an industrial outer suburb, the drive is long and slow in the morning traffic. You roll over deciding not to go this week. At 9 you wake up with a reasonable amount of energy and think it’s 11 or so, realizing you are wrong and can still make it to therapy, albeit a little late you call and inform the coordinator that you’ll be there at 10. Rush to get ready, don’t forget to check the pets’ water supplies, it’s going to be a hot day. Drive drive drive. No spots in the car park, damn it, but you get a two hour park around the corner. Walk into the conference room and the air-conditioner hasn’t been fixed, they said it would be done by last Thursday. There are 12 sweaty bodies emitting extra heat, great. They’re reviewing all the modes – this is Schema Therapy, right now they’re discussing the happy child, one you haven’t got to yet but you are only at week three. Someone spends half an hour sharing about a traumatic experience from her week and half the group tries to help her deal with it while the rest of you slip in to the detached protector mode and stare at the floor, well you play with your necklace instead but you’re just as detached as the rest of them. Break time, get out of that hot room and move the car so you don’t get a ticket, there’s room in the car park now so you won’t have to move again at lunch. Eat a lamington because all you had for breakfast was yoghurt, which you eat in the car, perhaps that was a little dangerous. Back to group. The coordinators have been able to negotiate a move to the art room, which has a functioning air-conditioner. Now comes a blank, people talk about something, referring to the various modes they tend to slip into. There are a few small pieces of wood on the table – art supplies - you start playing with them, you feel more at ease when your hands are busy. Looking for something to do you start to scratch at your wrist faster harder faster harder faster until there’s blood on your nails. No one has noticed so it’s alright. You go back to playing with the wood but it’s not enough so you scratch pinch pull at the skin on your arm. Somehow there’s now a sheet of paper in front of you, it’s a safety plan contract you’re supposed to fill out and sign. They’re now talking about self-harm and how with this contract we’re committing to taking a set course of action before we do anything to ourselves. You think it’s a little funny that as they’re discussing this you’re bleeding right in front of them. The urge to scratch more is overwhelming, you want more blood but surrounded by people that’s not a good idea so you get up and walk out thinking you can scratch away in the empty dining room. No. You are followed by one of the facilitators, he makes you talk to him, you show him your red wrist and he asks questions you answer with I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know, he’s sick of this but you tell him you really don’t know what to say. He has to go back into the room because he’s leading this section, the other leader who you feel a little more comfortable around takes his place trying to comfort you and figure out what’s going on in your head. You tell her about your disconnect with God and failed attempt at seeking help, she has some advice but can’t understand the situation with its spiritual nature and the complexities you haven’t told her. Back to the group for 10 minutes and it’s time for lunch. This time next week you’ll be heading off to uni, missing the afternoon session. You eat a bad sandwich taking off the cucumber and cringing as you eat ham – something you don’t like to eat because of the use of sow stalls and a general aversion to the meat. Coffee, another coffee. Go next door to change an appointment with your psychiatrist. Two Seroquel, group facilitator sees you taking them and asks what can be done to help you feel better, you suggest euthanasia and walk back to the art room where the rest of the group are waiting, seems you took a little too long getting your caffeine hit. It has been decided to leave the safety contracts to our one on one sessions on Friday as some group members feel a little uneasy about them, you just feel cynical. Game time, two truths one lie. As the name implies it is a game where you tell the group three things about yourself, one of which is a lie, they guess the lie. You get them all right but one and feel quite proud. Home time, you check your phone, nothing from friends, a voicemail from next door wanting to change the appointment you just made an hour and a half ago. Drive drive drive. The neighbours are having a party – yes on a Monday afternoon and a car is in your spot. In anger you print a note in a large font size to place under the wiper blades informing the driver that this is not their house and not to park there again. Mum comes home as you are doing this and removes the note fearing that the driver will become enraged and do something violent, she calls the council instead, they are delighted at the prospect of the 70 parking infringements they can issue on this clogged street. The Seroquel taken at lunch is still active, you’re tired, very tired. Time for bed, but you won’t sleep tonight if you nap now, best to stay up, cut your arm, it’s only bleeding a little from the scratches, you want more. You’re about to start a DipEd and think fresh scars on your arm during teaching rounds might be a little inappropriate and raise questions from curious kids. You write instead thinking you might add to the cuts on your thigh later, no one sees your thighs because they are fat you wear long dresses, skirts, shorts that will cover from the knee up. You started swimming regularly last week to improve fitness and hopefully weight you don’t know if you need to wait until the wounds are fully healed before going again, you hope not because you think you’re going to start cutting regularly again, the compulsion is strong. Something to look up – swimming in a public pool with open wounds.