Anxiety Demon

I took my night meds about an hour ago so I may drift off whilst writing this…

I was triggered to write because I thought, “maybe there’s some sort of creature / demon who is actually getting his belly filled up from eating all my anxious thoughts.”

Just now I was lying in bed thinking about our living situation, and really it’s all gone wrong too fast. The landlord is moving back in in January or February, there are three of us wanting to stay together, one maybe and one no because he’s getting married (good enough excuse).  So I was lying in bed worrying about that and also where I will live long term. I love the Eastern suburbs, I love the trees, the lake around the corner from my house and the birds – we get Rosellas hopping along our balcony ledge every day. They make me smile. The health care is better in the East too. The public mental health service is rotten in the West and they treat you like a criminal; when you go to see your case manager you have to talk to the receptionist through a tiny crack in the window separating her from the potentially murderous patients, the chairs are all plastic and the floors hard. I was never offered anything like I have over here, my mental health support worker who comes to see me once a week, though we often go out for coffee and casually talk about my goals and how she and her organisation can help me achieve them. I greatly value the support I’ve had through my support worker and the agency. I’m taking up pottery through them soon. No such thing exists in the West. Unprompted my doctor said on Wednesday that my move to the East has been very good for me. From the nature point of view, services and being closer to my friends and church. I’ve been in two of my local public psychiatric hospitals – public is never fun, but they’re both much less terrifying than the one I’ve been to in the West.

I’m scared of moving back West, which could happen due to us housemates all needing to find somewhere – maybe I’ll fail and end up back with Mum, maybe in the future I’ll choose to live there for other reasons. But with no support, very few friends, no hills, very few trees and a truly scary local hospital if I have to go public it will be challenging. I think the solution is a LA style risen road network of 30 lane roads (with 150kph speeds) going everywhere so there’s never any traffic and you could get from East to West in 20mins. Just the little pollution and ugliness issues to manage.

Here Again

This is the first time I’ve written since November, and as usual I’m writing from hospital. The most exciting thing to have happened since my last post is that I moved house again. I’m now living with four people, two from my church and two from a church that everyone seems to know someone from. I love the house; there’s always someone home at night, we cook for each other and there’s just a general sense of kindness and care. I wasn’t doing well at the old house; I was alone too much and had no motivation to cook for myself. I resorted to eating very little and when my stomach hurt using those powdered shakes to line my stomach. Being in hospital again has nothing to do with my living arrangements, I really couldn’t be happier there.

I was in here for six weeks recently with the plan of getting me off Lithium. My doctor decided to do it as an inpatient because he knows how sensitive I am to medication changes. He halved my dose and for a while it seemed to be going well, but then I became very depressed and agitated. It improved very quickly once the dose was increased again. My mood was still too low to send me home though so I had a round of ECT. I have no fear of ECT and I like the feeling of the anesthetic kicking in so there’s a kind of good side to it. It works very well for me and two days after the course ended I was sent home feeling great.

The positive feeling persisted for two weeks and then I started planning my suicide, a method I have access to and so could do very easily. I sat with the feeling for two days and then called my doctor. As usual there’s some protective element inside me because rather than follow through with it I called him, he suggested taking some Seroquel and having an early night and that we’d speak the following day. The following day came and I was more bent on dying and very reluctant to go into hospital, but he insisted. I only have accompanied leave, so I feel caged up. I’ve been here since Saturday and I’ve had my Mum visit on Tuesday and my outreach worker today, so that’s twice I’ve been outside in almost a week. Two friends might come tonight and another on Sunday.

I’m very disappointed in myself for being here this time. I was only home for two and a half weeks between admissions and I feel like I’m letting the household down because I’m not there to do my share of the cooking and shopping, but they’re a good bunch and I know they’re not going to resent me for being sick. I would like to explain to them what it’s like for me, that even though I can appear completely fine I can be in great turmoil. I’d like to have the kind of relationship with all of them where I can honestly talk about all this shit. I don’t even have that with my Mum. I wasn’t raised in a very emotionally open environment. I suppose when your husband is a nasty alcoholic you’re trained to answer “fine thanks” each time you’re asked how you are. I would have picked up on that.

I decided this afternoon that I was going to stop eating as a form of self-harm and control, it’s easy to feel like others have power over you in here. God is good. I decided this in art therapy and when I got back I had a message from a friend asking me to dinner tonight. I’m not going to go out for dinner with someone and not eat. So I’ll start that tomorrow if I still feel that way, it may be that I’ve changed my mind by then.

The Overdose V

It was nothing to fret about dying’s potential over. 54 tablets aren’t going to do that, especially if prompt treatment is sought.

I wasn’t in a terrible mood that day; I had come from an appointment with my psychiatrist, which went well. And I had a therapy class in a few hours. I went into my bedroom and saw the bottle of Clonazepam and something in me just said “take all of them, the lot, now.” I counted them to see how many milligrams I’d be taking – 108. Not that I did anything with that information; I didn’t Google “100mg Clonazepam overdose. I decided I was anxious and should use the pills appropriately and take 3 (a little more than prescribed, but ok) to calm myself down. Only the three pills hit my hand and my mind screamed out “what are you doing, take all of them, you’ve already got them out.” So I did.

Within a minute I’d decided to call an ambulance. I was home alone and if I caught a taxi I might pass out on the way to the hospital and then both me, and the driver would be in trouble, or the taxi might not even arrive before I’d passed out. I felt guilty using ambulance resources for something self inflicted, but it was the only safe way to get there, and by time we arrived at the hospital I was in need of help getting out.

I was put in Short Stay, totally bypassed the Emergency Department and then there’s a massive blank. I was later told when asking why I hadn’t seen a doctor yet that I had actually seen two. I asked if that happened when I was unconscious but they said I hadn’t lost consciousness, so I don’t know what to make of that chunk of lost time and invisible doctors and the mysterious cannula in my arm. Throughout the night and following day the psychiatric triage nurse came to see me many times. He seemed keen to get rid of me. I had to ask a nurse if I could stay the night since I could hardly walk, my request was granted. And then they kept me until 3pm the following day anyway.

I went home with the knowledge that I’d be admitted to the first available bed in the clinic I frequent so I got to packing. I don’t remember much of those few hours. A friend, D, came over with some dinner for us to share – I’d forgotten she was coming and my housemate had to wake me up. D is great. I think after that I just did the last bits of packing and slept.

In the morning I received a call telling me there was a bed on the elderly ward sharing a room with an 84 year-old woman who would be going home the following day. I said I’d take it. I needed the hospital care; I could still hardly walk.

I kept taking tiny naps in the taxi, but he needed me to tell him the side street the hospital entrance is on, so I couldn’t just sleep until we got here. It was a challenge staying awake in a nice smooth humming taxi whilst drugged to the eyeballs with what I would later learn is a benzodiazepine with one of the longest half-lives.

I’ve been here nine days now, only the last four have I felt more normal. I’m still in the elderly ward, but the morning after my arrival they moved me into a private room. It’s the same as every other room in the hospital except there’s a chair in the shower, which I have to move out of the way. Though I’ll admit for my first shower here I actually needed it as I couldn’t stand long enough to wash my hair and not fall over washing my legs and feet. The sedation from the overdose wore off slowly over a week. My doctor restricted me to the ward to have my meals delivered by the kitchen to the special elderly dining room up here because he didn’t trust me on my feet. I’m still having my breakfasts up here but the last three days I’ve started going down to the main dining room and choosing my food like everyone else, not ticking it off a list a day earlier. During the earlier days when I was quite sedated a friend, R, came to see me and I had to ask her to leave in the end. Usually I love company and I don’t want it to end and I hadn’t seen her for ages but I felt I was about to fall over. D came another day and I was very groggy but better than when she’d come to my house. It’s embarrassing that people have seen me like this. There’s my mum as well, she just ranted on about how selfish I was and the damage I’d done to my organs – untrue according to my doctor.

You may be wondering why I’m still here if the sedation has worn off and I’m safe on my feet again. That’s the suicidal ideation; it’s strong at the moment. My doctor is trying to get me to make a pact not to do it for three months and then after three months hopefully I’ll have made some progress in life and I can commit to another three months. The idea is accepting that in those three month periods there are going to be some very strong urges and times I just can’t cope, but I’ve made this pact that I’m not going to exit and instead work through it with my doctor or other health professional. I haven’t been able to agree to this yet because I see my life being only weeks longer, not months. If I was sent home today I wouldn’t kill my-self but next time the awful crushing feeling came on or I was overtaken by hopelessness I wouldn’t hesitate, providing I had a plan - which at the moment I only have the outlines of.

I have good friends and I’m very grateful for them, three came yesterday and one only just left, I’ve known her since I was 14 and I’ll be 30 in a few weeks. Friends aren’t enough to keep me alive. I need something to make up a life, some purpose and the absence of this pain and the thoughts.

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!)