Four Years Hasn't Changed Much

I've been out of hospital since Tuesday, I was there for two and a half weeks due to intense suicidal urges. I don't feel like giving a full update right now but I thought I'd share something old. ...

The following was written during a life writing class I took as part of my (unfinished) Masters in Writing and Literature. I stumbled upon it tonight whilst going through my hard drive and thought I'd let it see the light of day.

Senselessness always leaves marks; we’ve all done stupid things that will not be forgotten, not because we can’t purge them from our minds, but rather because we can’t eliminate the evidence. It may be weeks between the forced recollections, maybe just hours it depends where I look whilst on the toilet. It’s not a problem in the shower or getting dressed, I don’t study my body at those times, just get the task at hand over with. But I can’t help but gaze around me, and occasionally at me, while I urinate and defecate. I’m sitting there in a tiny white room with a frosted glass window, a wooden cat shaped toilet roll holder and an out-dated Astor poster to entertain me. Then I glance down at my right thigh and remember that I used to cut it, not a big deal since it’s only been 8 weeks since I last sliced my arm open, but I haven’t cut my leg for months and I forget that I ever did. I feel that my bloodlust is confined to my left arm, but it’s not. The occasional thigh glances remind me of the gash on my torso, the one that I really should have had stitched but let steri-strips suffice. They remind me of the Bolte Bridge incident, the many over-doses, though they are very blotchy memories, also the building incident, the knives, the banning from hospitals. A cascade of memories from a few lines that are usually covered. The fire on that thigh is out, but the smoke remains.

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.

Three Weeks out Two Weeks in

I'm at home now, discharge was on Saturday. I'm a bit miserable, to tell the truth. I've hit a hurdle in my story, so I've only written a tiny bit. I'm close to 9000 words now, but I'm not writing the story as it will be read, rather just how the plot emerges. When I've worked out everything that's happening I'll re-write probably in a different order to slowly reveal things about my main character and her task. I've decided that she will have a very long life and will have a very important job to do and will live until she finds someone worthy to pass that on to.

I'm probably not moving to Edinburgh, the NHS is very bad for mental health and private insurance excludes pre-existing conditions, so I'm stuffed. Also, the disability support payment is a fraction of what I'm on here. My ongoing fear of becoming homeless would exhibit its self within a week of my arrival and all my money being spent. Speaking of homelessness, I'm terrified that our lease won't be renewed in March and the boys want to live closer to the city and I won't be able to find anyone around here to live with because who wants to live with an unemployed nut case! So back to Mum's an hour away from all my friends, my GP, my psychologist and I'd lose my support worker, whom I really rely on. March, please don't come! We might get notice either way before the end of the year so we won't be so surprised either way, I'm just the eternal pessimist.

I don't have enough to fill in my days at the moment. I have a medical appointment of some kind 4 days of the week, but they only take up an hour. I went to the gym yesterday, but I'm not fit enough to work out for ages without drowning in a pool of my own sweat. Tomorrow's going to be a hard one, only one appointment at 2pm, so I'll feel awful in the morning and then again in the late afternoon. If I have the money I might go to the gym, but I'm seriously broke until Saturday.

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The TMS doctor has decided I'm going to have three weeks at home, then two weeks in for 10 sessions of TMS, and if it works that'll be my life. I hate life.


By the way, you can leave comments on this blog. I moderate them before they get published, so if anything is accidentally said which would reveal my identity to any random person I can choose not publish it. You all know who I am, but Google wouldn't lead you here if you typed in my name, and I want to keep it that way.

Writing. Stuff. Moving

I've been in the clinic for three weeks and three days. At first I remained very depressed and had my leave taken away a few times and all my stuff put in the nurses' station. I'm much better now, still having the suicidal urges, but I don't think they'll ever go away. I've had 14 TMS sessions and the last four days I seem to have picked up. I know this because people are commenting that I actually look human (they say it in nicer words than that) and I've finally started writing my novel. I had quite a lot of backstory and character development written, but I was too scared to start the actual story. I've finished the first chapter (first draft only, I'm sure it'll change) and made a start on chapter two, I think chapter two may end up being later in the story, but for now it's two. I've got just under 2000 words, which I know isn't a lot, but it's what most of my uni assignments were, so it feels good to have pumped that out quite quickly.

I had some company today, the 6pm minister and a friend, D, came to have communion with me, and then D and I went out for lunch. I'm not too bored at the moment, I'm watching Stranger Things, just two episodes a night, I had to re-watch season one a bit quicker than that so I could be ready for the season 2 release yesterday. I bought a new sim card for my old phone and got a good data deal, so I have better internet than usual when I'm in here. I use the phone as a hotspot. It's pretty crazy that there's no patient WIFI in here in 2017, nearly 2018. There is hope though.

I'm (again) considering a move to Edinburgh. I'm going to ask my psychiatrist if he can get a phone number for any NHS psychiatrists over there. I've sent off an e-mail to a clinic, it looks like the NHS doctors are all in hospitals though. I've emailed my church over there to ask if people often put up notices or ask around for flatmates and just letting them know that I'm looking. I have some very good friends here, but I just don't feel like Melbourne has much to offer me. I always get a feeling of belonging when I'm in Edinburgh. I haven't looked into the courses on offer or if I'd have a hope in hell of getting in, but Edinburgh University is one of the good ones.

I know this is a sudden ending, but my night meds are kicking in, so good night.

Drugs, Hospital, Cognition and Writing

I know the year isn’t so new anymore, but I’m just building up the motivation to write this now…

I ended last year badly, spending the end of November until mid-December in hospital and then after being home for six days I took an overdose of Stilnox, had a night in Emergency, got sectioned and admitted to the public psych ward only to be discharged after about two hours because my psychiatrist arranged for me to have a private admission instead. I then spent 10 days in the private hospital I used to go to, including Christmas day. I was given 12 hours leave for Christmas day, so at least I got to spend it with my Mum and brother. I’ve actually been pretty good since leaving hospital, with the exception of some nightmares and anxiety I’d say things are going well.

So a new year begins and my life remains pretty much the same. Instead of weekly 30-minute appointments with my psychiatrist I’m having twice-weekly 45-minute appointments with the intention of practicing schema therapy during those times. I’m not going to explain what schema therapy is because I don’t have a strong grasp on it my self, if you’re curious a simple Google search will help. I have few childhood memories and these are important for schema work, I’m worried I’m just going to unintentionally make things up. I have a lot of false memories from looking at photos, I look at it and think I remember the moment but I’m just inventing something from what the photo looks like.

I’ve started the painful task of reducing my medication. I’m thinking very slowly and can’t comprehend or remember well; the likely culprits being Neulactil and Stilnox. Last Monday night I took one-and-a-half Stilnox instead of the usual two and kept that up for the whole week. Last night I cut down to just one and had a very interrupted night of rest, still I’ll do it again tonight and see how I go. I’m going to reduce Neulactil too but not until my next hospital admission, last time I tried I became very suicidal very quickly so my DR wants to wait until I’m in a safe environment. I hope by going through the pain of reducing, with an aim to ending the use of these two meds I’ll get back the use of my mind.

I’ve started work on a novel, well just character development so far, and I’m terrified. Even whilst reading I can’t follow a plot. I’m reading Sense and Sensibility for the first time at the moment and I’ve had to look up characters and check how they relate to each other because I forget where they came from and why they matter to the story. If reading is so hard I can’t imagine how I’m going to keep track of the plot of something I’m writing and successfully make it interesting. I guess just keep a lot of notes. I’m working on the characters first. When writing in the past I’ve made solid characters and then kind of thrown them in a situation together to see what happens. My main character in this novel will be alone most of the time but there will be scenes from her past and the future with others in them.

Maybe those of you reading this can ask me when you see me how the writing’s going, and keep me accountable. I’m scared of getting confused by it, of writing something awful and of just giving up when I need something productive to do with my life; I’m not up to working and I’ve studied (a little) writing so why not give it a try.

Writing

I've deferred this semester of uni to write (and read), and so I must get to it. I'm starting to doubt I have it in me to be a writer though, I lack the vocabulary - the reason I need to read more - and I can't punctuate, story I can deal with, but I'd like to be better. I'm sure we'd all like to be better at what we do, but I don't do much so I feel it's important to be able to confidently say "My name's K and I can write." To help me with this L has set me a challenge to write a page a day despite whatever is going on and I'm determined to read a lot more even when my brain is mushy and the words mean nothing to me, at the very least I can find a word I've never or rarely come across and add it to my vocabulary. I'm currently reading The Lost Dog by Michelle de Kretser for the second time, it is very good for this purpose, as well as being a good read it is quite intellectual and features Melbourne's arts scene.

I'm tired now, good night.

Quibble is a Nice Word

I’m writing again, properly, it feels good. Today’s grammar quibble is wonder / wander, I’m waiting for my very slow internet connection to tell me which I need, ok it’s wonder! It wasn’t a simple sentence though! I’m adapting one of my longer blog posts to be a short story, fictioning it up a bit and making it a lot more anonymous since it will be read my prof.

I don’t have a lot to tell you from in here, I’m bored as hell so please come visit, I can leave any time of day, and have coffee with you just come, come , come; is that desperate enough? 

Have a Day in my Head

I made it to church on Sunday and am glad I went; I realised I possibly look forward to the coming of Christ more than many others, it means being in the glory of God, but also away from all this shit, we sung a few songs re: let your kingdom come etc and I couldn’t help but think, or just let me die. Is it bad to leave church more suicidal than when you got there?! My report for today is that things are bad and getting worse, my mood is low, but has been lower, the distressing thing is the return of the violent images and compulsion to act on them, this is where being in hospital is important, if I self hard in here I get sectioned and sent to the nearest public hospital with a psych ward, in this case that would be a bad bad thing, also depending on what I did and his own attitude I may get Dr dumped again, no thanks!

I got some writing done yesterday, very little, but some all the same. I moved rooms too, I still don’t have a single room, but I have a double to myself, they’re not expecting anyone in until after Christmas, so it’s mine. Daddy, Rico and I went out for lunch yesterday and R came to visit today, I’m feeling less lonely than last time.

I’m tired now, bed time.

Four Frikkin Thirty AM

There are currently no public psych beds available anywhere in Victoria! I spoke with CAT tonight and they would have admitted me, but no room, they already had four or five people sitting in various emergency departments crossing all their digits for a bed. I have to call a private hospital which wasn’t on my “go to” list at 9am to see if their resident psych can admit me. It’s getting a little ridiculous; I am very well insured, surely someone wants my fund’s money?  I can’t stop fidgeting, my heart is racing and irregular, I can’t sleep despite six hours of trying. I might just kill time until 9am rolls around, make the call and then try again at this sleep thing. I spent the last two hours (in bed on my phone) researching either purchasing or hiring a spiral staircase so I can stage my play, the problem is - being a short - we’d need to strike the set very quickly for the next piece to come on, or set up very quickly if we were last (or both if we’re not first or last), the staircase might be problematic, and since it’s called “The Stairs” and they are integral I don’t think ditching them is an option. This might have to be one that stays on paper – Unless I make it a full play, but I think this is right at its current length.

I wish sedatives still worked on me without having to resort to dangerous doses.