A Flat Festive Season

Girl found the best place to spend a 36-degree day

I had a fun combined birthday party with my housemates. All three of us are December babies. It was the happiest I've felt for a long time, aided by alcohol I'll confess, but I wasn't really drunk, just happy drunk. I've never been properly drunk, I don't want to be like my dad even once. The happy feeling didn't last; I returned at midnight after the party to the hospital - they gave me extra leave to go to my own party, how nice of them! I had 10 TMS treatments and it picked my mood up from a 4 to a 5 (out of 10). This is just a bleh number to be at; nothing's joyful, nothing sucks so much you want to stab yourself, you don't feel suicidal, just bleh. I'm back in for another 10 on the 10th Jan, they're going to do two a day, so I may only be in for five days.

I met a man online, met up, no good. He needs friends though so I might contribute there, nothing more. Ideally I'd be with the kind of man who would be attracted to me as I am right now - though not grumpy. I am trying to lose weight but it's very hard on Seroquel, that fucking drug just makes your brain constantly scream I'M STARVING! FEED ME. I definitely look better 50kg thinner but even if I lost it all and was pretty again I'm going to decline with age, so I want a man who loves my brain. My brain isn't all bad, it's funny, friendly, compassionate, loving, caring and very loyal. Maybe I don't want a man who can't look past the fat. I can understand being put off by my illness, but I think it's pretty well managed and if I had something like a good relationship to live for I'd be a lot better. Right now if I kill myself I'd wrestle with myself about the pain I'd be causing the people who care about me, but I'm not sure I could do that to a partner. I think I'd try harder to stay. That's a big burden to place on someone though, so maybe no one wants that.

As I've been so flat I haven't had a single creative thought for a week. Not a word has been written on my novel. My life has just been appointments and a couple of coffees with a friend or two. I went to the church my housemates go to on Sunday as mine was not on that night. It was good to experience a very different style of church. Good sermon. I liked the quality of the music, but the song choice was not what I like, they were nearly all talking about what we are going to do for God or because of Him. I prefer songs simply glorifying God, I don't want to sing something about myself, what if I don't do it - I've lied to God.

Being from an immigrant family means Christmas sucks. There's three of us in Australia. My brother lives with my Mum, and his girlfriend recently moved in, I assume she's having Christmas dinner with us. Mum has two friends who are from the same area as us, the man was actually engaged to my aunty but it ended; they might come for Christmas, but haven't confirmed yet. Mum has a boyfriend (I don't like calling him that, it sounds too adolescent, but doesn't partner mean you're living together?) who she tries to keep secret. I asked if he'll be joining us but he has his own kids to have Christmas with, she said maybe later on in the day. Yeah, so Christmas will be sit down, eat a duck, clean up, read or something like that. I like to watch the Queen's speech, Mum just jokes her way through it but I think it's quite meaningful. This year I get to attend the Christmas Eve service at my church, usually I'm in hospital. It ends after midnight, hopefully that means the roads are quiet for the hour-long drive to Mum's.

I hate this time of year, everyone's busy; right now I just want to sit down around a table or on some couches with a friend and chat about anything and everything. I can't read with my head this foggy and I just don't want to watch anything. I'm listening to music but there's almost permanently a musical background to whatever I'm doing. I might go outside and cuddle the chickens, it's looking like a storm's on its way and my phone has just confirmed this, I've got a little while though.

Sorry this wasn't the most enthralling read I've ever given you, just an update.

Mourning?

Today is a hard day, it's my Dad's 62nd birthday - well at least it would be if he was still alive. I thought I'd be fine, but I cried over my breakfast and then managed to bite my lip for a few hours to stop a repeat. I allowed myself to shed a few more tears when I got home from my psychology session. He was briefly mentioned, but I felt like there were more pressing issues to discuss. It's hard knowing what to feel right now. I guess the answer is whatever you are feeling is right. It's just so confusing. My psychologist and I were talking about emotions taking on a whole new life when they are attached to trauma, they're stronger and harder to dismiss or even accept.

I've been in therapy for nine years now and we've all agreed that I have depression, which is biological and even if I was brought up in the ideal family it would have reared its ugly head. It is worse due to what I've been through though. On top of the depression, I also have anxiety and Borderline Personality Disorder. I can't be bothered searching this blog to find out what I've already told you, so I'm sorry if you've heard it a hundred times. The trauma in my life is from growing up with the emotional abuse from my Dad's alcoholism. I'll make it clear, he didn't hit us, but I was still terrified nearly every night of what was going to (eventually) walk through the door. Often it was late and he'd wake me up with his shouting and very loud music, one time he threw a heap of crockery across the kitchen, smashing plates and bowls on the floor and walls. I hid from him pretty well when I knew he'd be yelling at me. I'm not going to type every incident from the 21 years I lived with him in here, but let's just settle on the fact that I was scared of him.

Mum was and still remains a stone. If that woman has an emotion it's hidden underneath a mountain. I couldn't share my fears and shame with her. I attended a Christian school where everyone came from a perfect church- attending family, of course not true, but it felt like I was the only one with this dirty secret that my family wasn't perfect. It was made worse by the church when I started attending of my own accord when I was in year 9. There the families were on a higher level of perfection and I just felt that I was somehow tainting the place. I told no one except the one girl who invited me to the church. (she probably told her dad, who was/is the pastor, so I'm sure more people than I thought knew). Not having anyone to talk to has made the emotional abuse so much worse, I didn't have extended family as we moved to Australia from England when I was 3. My Grandma was a great support on our most recent trip. I think about how much better things would have been had I been able to talk to her whilst growing up, and for Mum to have some support if she wanted to get a divorce.

Mum says I blame Dad too much for where I'm at now, but my doctor puts a lot of blame on him, and her for failing to be emotionally available and for tearing me away from my extended family. (If you're reading this Mum, I know you thought you were doing the best thing). You can't raise a healthy child in an environment where it doesn't know what to expect each night, where it has to keep secrets and has no support.

An aside. In year 10 my Dad was getting home late most nights and playing music very loudly whilst shouting at Mum. I think it's understandable that most mornings were slow. I got to school late most mornings and my bastard of a homeroom teacher, instead of taking me aside and asking how things were at home just kept giving me demerits and detentions.

So today on his birthday, I'm lost. He was a drinker right to the end. I remember one apology, he was trashed on my birthday and the next day went and bought me a beautiful pearl necklace, which I still wear on occasions. I am similar to him in that way, I show my love through gifts. He loved me and showed it in his own way, but that doesn't wipe out the damage he caused.

If my Mum reads this I'll be in so much trouble for telling all of you this. I don't let Mum see the links but I think she snoops around sometimes.

I'd like to add that since leaving the church of my youth I've been open about Dad and I'm not a dirty stain on the church, I'm part of a body of believers who love and help each other.

I have nothing else to say.

Happy Birthday Dad

New

I’ve been out of hospital for eight days, and they’ve been very good days. Last Monday I moved into my new house and I couldn’t ask for more. My housemate and I get along really well, it’s close to nearly all my friends and I can walk to places. There’s a nice creek with a path a couple of streets to the South and in three minutes I can walk to a very nice café at the end of my street, where there’s also lots of other shops. I’ve never lived within walking distance of anything like this, as a kid there were some shops you could walk to, but nothing special and not this close. And trees! I have trees that haven’t just been planted everywhere I look.

I’m a little worried this arrangement won’t last, but I’ll enjoy it while it does. My housemate and her husband own the house. He works in Brisbane and only comes down when the flights are cheap. She’s going up there for 6 weeks in November / December for work, it’s not a permanent job but if they like her and a job comes up I imagine she’ll take it to be with her husband, and since they own the house I can’t just take over the lease.

My time in hospital went well. I was there three and a half weeks, two of which were for ECT. ECT works very well for me, better than any medication, but without maintenance it won’t last. I feel guilty wishing my dad was still alive purely for my own convenience, but I really need him for this (bringing me home from maintenance). There is my brother but he’d do it very begrudgingly, if at all

I re-gained some trust from my psychiatrist while I was in hospital. For the first time since the tall building and police incident he let me out on leave by my self for walks and coffee etc. Time in there goes much faster when you’re not trapped. I had what I’m pretty sure is the biggest room in the ward - unlike last time where I hardly had room to store my suitcase. I was worried that because I spent a night in ICU someone else would get my room, but they kept it for me.

A friend and I have an agreement to start writing in October, her a Bible study, me a novel. Don’t judge me by this blog, I’ve never really found a style for it; I’ve just wanted to let people see the reality of severe mental illness. I’m worried about my punctuation; I just guess where to put things. I think I’ll be fine with character and plot. I’m curious to see what comes out.

ECT On The Morrow

I just read over my last post, wow, what a mess! Ever heard of a paragraph?! I think it was indicative of my state of mind at the time though.

I’ve been here a week today, one night of which was spent in ICU after apologising to a nurse in advance for the likeliness of her finding my body. I’m grateful to my doctor for not leaving me there any longer than one night; it’s pretty awful. The nature of it means there has to be little privacy, but it could be greatly improved by a fresh coat of paint and something to do other than watch TV or colour in mandalas. My inner bitch came out to play and I was quite unkind to the nurses / captors.

My doctor has decided to give me a round of ECT. I’m a bit unclear on how he reached the decision, but I think it’s because we needed fast improvement given how bent on killing myself I was. I say was because I’ve told him I won’t try it in hospital, it would be difficult and if I survive I’d be banned from the hospital and probably dumped as his patient.

I’ve written in the past about how much ECT (Electroconvulsive Therapy) has affected my memory, but I was mistaken. A couple of months ago I had a neuropsychology assessment – a 5-hour test on memory among other things. It was determined that my memory issues are due to severe depression, which can impair recollection and creation of memories. The type of memories I’ve lost don’t correlate with ECT memory loss and my depression was rated at the top of the scale they used.

Although I know about my memory I am still a little anxious about losing more. I have no fear of the procedure, the first of which is tomorrow morning, just the memory side of things. I think this session will take me into the 30s for ECT. It’s so high because I’ve had maintenance sessions where you come in once a week as an outpatient. I probably need to do that again but my Dad is dead and he played a role in me being able to come. Mum would drop me off before work (I had to be here early) and then later Dad would pick me up; he worked for himself, so he had the freedom to do that. Now it would mean Mum missing half a day of work once a week, and I can’t catch a taxi home because you have to be accompanied after the treatment. Anyway, I won’t be living with her.

I’ve been introduced to a friend of L’s who is in here at the moment. It’s nice to have someone to talk to, still in the getting-to-know-you phase, but there’s at least someone here I can say hello to (and raid hard drives!)

Driving Away

It is quite possible that tomorrow (well later today, but after I sleep) my car, a 1997 Ford Falcon which looks something like this

will be replaced with a Honda Jazz. I was grateful to my mother, who recently decided to buy my brother and I replacement cars for the death traps we are currently driving. But now that the reality is looming I’m having second thoughts. My current car is a moving testament to my dad’s impulsiveness; one day he decided that a great replacement for my old, but reliable grandma-mobile was a 6 cylinder family car and went out and bought it without consulting anyone. I must admit it was a blessing at the time, since I was spending 98.9736% of my time in the Dandenongs and quite enjoyed getting up the hill without a struggle. But really, what single woman in her 20s drives a thing like that. The car is definitely not road worthy, and I would like something smaller and newer, but it’s another memory of Dad gone. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or just thoughtless efficiency, but my Mum has purged the house of most things which suggest Dad once walked the earth, and the car is soon to be another one to leave. Also, the Jazz is blue.

Dad

On the 24^th of January at 8:25am my dad passed away after four days on life support. We were assured that he was in no pain so at least there was that comfort. It wasn’t actually the prostate cancer that killed him; about two weeks prior to his death he had his first dose of chemotherapy, which, as chemotherapy does, wiped out his immune system, then while he was still in hospital he picked up Legionnaires’ disease, having no immune system he couldn’t fight it off. Usually Legionnaires’ is nasty, but with antibiotics you can recover.  We have no family in Australia, it was pure coincidence that my aunt and uncle (Dad’s brother) were here and such a blessing too. Dad and his brother were very close and it’s great that they got to spend some time together before the end and we had their help in the aftermath. They’re gone now and it’s just me, Mum and my brother in the country, kind of lonely if I think about it.

Grieving has been easy; I was distraught the day he died but that’s it. Mum has been keeping her-self very busy and is doing well and S (brother) seems fine too. I don’t know if we’ll all fall to pieces at a later date or if we’re genuinely okay. Friends have been a great support, a handful of women from my church made us meals and mum’s colleagues took up a collection and used the funds to buy a billion things from a catering company, filling our freezer to the brim. The house smelled beautiful for a few weeks from all the flowers we received and there were a lot of people at the funeral. We’ll all miss him and the house is certainly strange without his quirky presence, but we’re okay.

It took me two hours to write those two paragraphs, I think I need to find a way to reinvigorate my brain before uni starts in little over a week.