To Grandma, I'm Not Going to Run Down The Street Naked

I took these photos for my Grandma, who I think is under the belief I'm in a 1950s style nut house. I wasn't aware of this, but my Mother and Grandma are both concerned about a few days I'll have without Mum's presence in Edinburgh and a week in Manchester when Mum will be traversing Italy. Mum brought it up in a meeting the two of us had with my doctor on Wednesday night; thankfully he was on my side and said that I'm an adult quite capable of roaming around Edinburgh as I desire, he just encouraged me to answer people's text messages to assure them all's well - that I'll do so long as they're not every 20 minutes!

                                                A bed, not a trolley with straps to tie me down!

                                          Shelves, bench and desk - plus a hoard of towles

                                   Exit into the main hospital and my ensuite door on the right.

Some things I've made whilst here. I know the koala is very Australiana, but it's for my (other) Grandma and she'll love it. 

Ensuite, you may notice the lack of shower curtain; some people don't like that, but I always leave them open, so I'm quite happy to go without.

                                                             The rest of the bathroom.

I was unable to take photos of the dining room or the two tea/coffee spaces due to not really being allowed to take photos in here and there's the possibility of capturing other patients.

So as you may guess from the photos, I'm still in hospital and undergoing TMS, it has definitely worked a lot on my mood, but my anxiety is troubling me every afternoon and evening as my meds are wearing off. I take the next batch at 8pm. I don't know how often people come in for maintenance and for how long. I think it's monthly and for a few days, but it differs according to peoples' needs. I hope when I get back from the trip I can relax for a week or so at home before having to come in here for a top up, it may even be a full session since I will have gone eight weeks without any. I'm going home on Thursday, bringing my days at home for the year up to 21, it'll reach 33 if I make it to the trip without needing to come back. Then 6 weeks away!

K

Own Feet

I’m most likely leaving on Monday; it will be two days shy of a four week stay. In some ways I am much better, in others not so. The new drug regime is working as much as you can expect it to short of a miracle, side effects are plentiful, but I’m most annoyed by the shaky hands – dry mouth previously mentioned is improving. I’ve attended art nearly every day, and completed 6 pieces / projects and have two on the go. Art provides three hours a day to get sucked into something other than my head, it’s good. The studio is very well stocked here, in the previous hospital you could tell art therapy (and open studio) was the poor cousin to the other groups on offer. Art therapy here is very unstructured, the art is the therapy, at my old hospital we had only one hour, half of which was spent making art with set materials and a subject, and then we had to talk about it; that was a chore, this is enjoyable. Random internet folk have taught me how to knit and crochet in the last fortnight, though it took a human (R) to show me how to cast on. I’ve now knitted a headband and lots of other stuff I’ve torn apart because it was just practise.

There was a new admission this evening, has to be a first timer! I couldn’t tell who the patient was because the whole family was here – parents in their 50’s, their adult and teenage children, partners of children (evident by baby bump and proximity of partner), everyone was crying and fussing. My guess is there was a little incident at family lunch, it shocked everyone except the sufferer (mum is my guess) who has been hiding well, they went to ED and because they’re insured ended up here, I think that’s how it works when there are actually beds available and you’re not on a blacklist! They all looked so uneasy, mummy joined the freak show and now they have to visit her and hope not to be contaminated by the other more freaky freaks she’s been dumped with. That’s my interpretation of what they were thinking based on 20 minutes of spying over dinner. I remember my first few days in psych hospital; I was terrified and very alone. She’ll settle in.

I’m a bit scared about going home, I’m definitely not fine, but I can’t live in hospital, a part of me would like to. I’m looking forward to hanging with Rico again and being in my own house, though this week will be spent at my parents’. I’m not sure I’m looking forward to anything else; I’m lonely at home and most people my age work, I can’t put the friendship burden on too few people, history shows they sink.

Don't Ever Let me Have a Credit Card

I bought Portal 2 today but my mobile broadband connection is too crappy to do the Steam update required to play it; I might be desperate enough to catch three types of public transport each way to my house and back so I can have good internet for a few hours, though I’ll probably be travelling longer than I’m home. There are a great number of shops near the hospital, I’ve spent a lot of money since I’ve been here, I’ve bought more clothes this week than I have all year, so I’m going to try and limit myself to one new pair of jeans, some tights, a few gifts and lots of coffee.

Yesterday was the worst day I’ve had in awhile, I requested the removal of my leave early in the morning because I didn’t trust myself and spent the day trying not to bite chunks out of my arm. I had two visitors, who I put on a pretty good act for, I told them it was a bad day but no matter how close the friend I don’t breakdown in front of people. Psych gave me my leave back because so long as I don’t jump in front of a truck it’s better for me to have some independence. I had my first dose of Clonazepam today and it worked, without making me drowsy; Valdoxan won’t start until Friday, and I wonder if I got the name wrong, the info I’ve found online doesn’t come close to what my psych said.

Art is going well, I’ve been every day but one, my first piece is almost finished and I made a start on the second tonight whilst waiting for a layer of paint to dry on the first. I didn’t like the first one until yesterday when it lost its adolescent appearance.

Art Envy

I am currently suffering from art envy, it has been growing slowly but received a boost on Monday during a visit with my friend L, who is suffering almost the exact same illness as me. Despite her illness L continues to perform, create and live. I love her, I envy her, I want to possess the drive and raw talent she has (and the contacts). It has been over a year since I did anything even remotely to do with theatre; I haven’t even been writing, I have grand ideas for plays but I haven’t put them on paper, and I yearn to be back on the stage. I’m not a brilliant actor, but I love it and I don’t completely suck; I am a much better director though. There are countless ideas dancing around in my head, screaming, whispering all longing to get onto the stage. I don’t have actors, a space, the energy or the nerve to just get out there and make art. For three years I have been sitting on a fringe show, not being bold enough to get my act together, afraid of failure –the worst fear an artist can possess, multiple failures are a certainty in this field, something I need to accept and live through.


In March I commence my masters in literature and writing; I am aiming to get into the research strain, which will enable me to do a creative project and will be an acceptable pre-requisite to later do a PhD. I fear this plan is a mistake, and instead of taking the clear cut path through higher education I should be getting my ideas on the stage now, and I can do that because typically my ideas for the stage are very visual and contain little, if any dialogue. Plays like these won’t require the ability to write elegantly; but a time will come when I want dialogue and I will lack the ability to make it beautiful. I could forget about writing entirely and direct the plays of other writers, but I don’t think I’d be satisfied because it’s not entirely mine; I can put a lot of myself into it but I can’t completely possess it, it’s asking enough to let the actors do their thing rather than directing with an iron rod (that’s bad). I think this means the course is a good idea, though I may need to get off my bottom in the meantime and get my fringe show off the ground. Fear rears its ugly head again.

Sober Art

I got nothing done last night, but I enjoyed my shiraz. Here's today's progress. I don't think I'll post any more of my therapy work for a while, these pages aren't finished and I'll be making many more, it'll get boring for you, dear readers.

Drunk Art is The Best Kind

I’m drinking myself into a stupor tonight because life stinks; but I will continue working on my therapy book as I do so and review the results when I regain consciousness. A real artist probably doesn’t show their work in progress, but there’s nothing real about me, so here’s my therapy book so far. I am actually enjoying it.

And yes, that is my parents' antique table I'm working on with nothing to protect it from paint splashes and glue....

Title Pages

Anger                       Defiance

Construction                     Femininity

Fear