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!)

Stuck on Earth

I’m back in the private psychiatric hospital after spending a night in emergency sleeping on a trolley not much wider that me. It’s hard to describe how numb I am, how numb I have been for quite some time. This is more than what is normal for me; it’s eaten away all that I am. I am unable to get excited about moving house – something I’ve wanted for over a year-and-a-half and which is finally happening. And I feel like I need to open a valve in my chest to let out the blackness. I’m not in here for numbness though. I’m here because I have an active suicide plan, which should work and I’m desperate for it to. Seeking help when you’re feeling like that seems pretty counterproductive but there is an element of fear, which makes me talk to my psychiatrist to see what he can do. When I saw him last night he suggested putting me on Epilim, a drug I was on a few years ago, which he remembers being effective. I have no memory of it apart from the weight it made me gain (I’m on appetite suppressants now). But I didn’t want to go on it incase it works and I get to a stage where I’m just as hopeless and depressed but lack the drive to kill myself. (I agreed reluctantly) I can’t continue like this. There are ways of doing it in the hospital but if it fails or I’m found before I die there will be all manner of trouble. I was in such a state last night that I would have done it but I was in a shared room and couldn’t predict how long my roommate would be out.

I’ve reached the stage where I feel pretty confident that suicide is how I’ll meet my end. There’s little fear left and a general sense of readiness. My only fear is that it won’t work and I’ll have to live with the consequences. Oh to be an American and have 5 guns in the house. My psychiatrist, emergency and the CAT team got me through the two nights before I came in here. Though I think this admission will just delay the inevitable. It’s hard to say you’re suicidal and then not do it, people don’t understand. It’s a pull. Imagine that piece of chocolate you’re craving and have resisted all night, well it’s not a piece of chocolate but whatever method you’re planning pulls you in like that, it calls your name, taunts you  -“I’m still waiting, what, are you scared?” You almost need to chain yourself to a chair to keep away from whatever it is you’ve got planned

I Had A Few Non-Suicidal Weeks. I Guess That's It For The Year

As most of you have probably seen me whinging about on Facebook I had surgery on my wrist last Monday and I’ve reached the end of my tolerance for the pain. Not only am I sick of it but it’s become worse over the last few days resulting in me going to the GP I don’t like to get some stronger pain relief. He gave me Tramadol and it’s only taking the edge off. I know it’s a ridiculous over-reaction but I’ve been increasingly suicidal, not directly as a way to escape the pain – I know that will be temporary – but out of anger, frustration and boredom. Boredom because I can’t go anywhere without someone else driving me, anger at the pain and frustration at not being able to use my right hand. It feels like it will never come to an end. I’m spending 14 hours a day in bed because it hurts less when I’m still with my hand resting on a pillow and I can just read and listen to music when I’m not asleep. When I’m up I’ve got to try to distract myself from the pain and from the horrible thoughts the pain is bringing up. I haven’t called my psychiatrist because I can’t go to see him until I can drive and I can’t go into hospital because I need to see the surgeon on Tuesday and don’t want to risk missing that.

Today is my second day in pyjamas sitting in front of my laptop; I can’t see the point of getting dressed. Two friends took me out last week; one lives locally, the other more local than most of my friends but still a bit of a drive. I’m grateful to both of them but I’m feeling very isolated and I wish more or my friends were able or willing to come. I’m always aware that one of BPD’s symptoms is manipulation and I worry when I say things like that I’m being manipulative, but I don’t think asserting a need is manipulative. So there it is, please visit me.

More Appointments Than a 90 Year-Old

This coming week is almost full with appointments:

Monday:

Prahran: Psychiatrist – not my own - he’s away – but this one is very good.

Tuesday:

Williamstown: Osteopath for my back. I was seeing a physiotherapist but I reached my ($700) annual limit on my insurance. My physio said osteopathy would be the next best thing for it and it falls under a separate category in my insurance, so all is well. The osteopath does fantastic massages, really gets in there and I think the one manipulation she does helps too, but I don’t like her interest in the rest of my health problems and the spiritual side of things. She seems to think that osteopathy can fix it all. It can’t.

Hoppers Crossing: Weekly medication pick-up

Wednesday:

Prahran: Therapy group from 10-3

Box Hill: Not an appointment, but something I’ll be doing. Swimming from 4 – 5

Surrey Hills: Psychology from 6 – 7

Thursday:

Blackburn: GP: 3:30

Friday:

Box Hill: Hand surgeon 10:40

And this is why I need to be living on the other side of the city to where I currently am. Also I only have one friend on this side which sucks for getting out and doing things that aren’t medically related.

Depression and Anxiety Together Bringing You One Fine Week

I feel like after naming my last post Breakthrough and rhapsodising about what it is to feel again that this should be a positive post. But since a record 32 people read that post, and I’ll probably just get my usual 7 today I think I’ll just tell the truth.

I have been fighting anxiety off like a flock of hungry birds and all I have are some sticks made of benzodiazepines. My psychiatrist just gave me some stronger ones but I have to take them sparingly. In the last few days the depression has been getting stronger too, it’s the staying in bed, not being able to move, ignoring the world kind. I’m not going to church tonight even though that’s exactly what I need, I just can’t put myself up to the hour drive and the pretending once I get there. I need my friends to come to me (Thanks L), to sit with me in my PJs and drink tea.

I do a very good job of pretending. I went out yesterday and I felt genuinely good during some one on one time with my friend B.H but then the group part got too much and I had to put on pretending hat and I left before the second part of the evening began.

I woke at 11 this morning, made a coffee and returned to bed where I read until 2, that was nice. I want to go back but I’ll save it for tomorrow when Mum’s at work and I can stay there all day without question.

My Psychiatrist is going away, I’m not seeing him again until the 11^th of July. He’s made other arrangements for me, but I’m still quite scared. I’ll be looked after if I come crashing down, just not by him.