Meaning

Back in 2010 I bought a plum tree to grow in a pot in the corner of my garden, which is really just a tiny triangular space in front of my house, and all gravel. I remember I was in hospital during the autumn of 2010 and worried that the tree would be delivered while I was away, but luckily it came after I had been discharged. I remember planting it then promptly neglecting it. It survived last summer without much watering and the other day I noticed it had some small white blossom on it. There is a bud on the rose too, that I planted beside the front door when I moved in, and that I half chose for its name - Compassion. And the poppies are growing wild and lush. And the three plants I picked up for 10p from a bargain shelf at the garden centre are all in flower. ************************************************************************************* So I find meaning, so I go on. To see the poppies, and the bees they will bring, to smell the rose and to see if the tree grows any plums. Not much of a reason, really, but it will have to do for me right now. ************************************************************************************* Actually I feel a lot better. I went for acupuncture the other day. I was sceptical but a friend who is going said it made him feel "marvellous" so I was persuaded to book an appointment. It was a strange experience. The most obvious effect was the deep relaxation it induced in me, and I could feel heat moving around the areas treated even after the needles were removed. But the next day I got up and did some tidying. I even got out my paints and started doodling with them. And I just feel a greater sense of what is possible. Like yeah, my life is peculiar and lonely, but it is mine and can still have meaning. ************************************************************************************* I saw my social worker, and that was odd. Because she was talking about some of my recent behaviour and it made me realise just how crazed I was. I was literally out of mind with suicidality. There was one time I was at home on leave from hospital and not doing well and my social worker came to visit and she tried to persuade me to go back to the hospital. And I kept changing my mind, agreeing and then suddenly saying that no, I couldn't, back and forth, over and over. We got as far as packing a bag and getting in the car and then again I said I couldn't go back, so she turned round and took me home. Then later that day I called her and said I had realised I did need to be in hospital because I knew I wasn't safe at home, so she had to come out again and fetch me. I just felt so unwell I didn't know what to do with myself, I didn't know what I wanted, I didn't know what was best. ************************************************************************************* It seems like a bad dream now. Oh, I am glad that the worst is over. What I don't know is how I live with the possibility that I may be as ill as that again. Sometimes I would look at the older women in the hospital and think, I am seeing my future. It scares me, this potential of my mind to completely fuck me over. And despite my psychologist hammering on about triggers, I still can't help feeling that there is something natural, cyclical, elemental about my mood swings, that they are like seasons or weather and therefore beyond my control. ************************************************************************************* Well, we shall see. What *should* happen next is that my mood will rise - how far and high is the question. But I shall be a good girl, keep my "reflective diary", consult with the professionals and see if I can manage whatever the next few months bring with at least some kind of elegance or grace. P.S. Apologies for the formatting on this post, Blogger is for some reason not recognising paragraph breaks.

Meaninglessness

I wander the house. My shelf of self help and healing books seems to mock me. My art supplies taunt me. The mess on the floor reminds me I'm useless. A good day these days is one I manage to sleep away, wrapped in white sheets, listening to rain. Depression is hard and heavy in me. It reminds me somehow of bone. I don't know how it is possible to come back from this place. I feel too damaged, too lacking in everything that makes a meaningful life possible.

Scrambled

This last week I have felt more ill than ever before. I became nearly completely paralysed by the electrodes and the thought loops. I was very seriously suicidal. Stopping taking my meds when I was already ill didn't work out so well.

And I have been back and forth to hospital. The crisis team persuaded me to go back on Sunday because they were concerned about how I was coping, but I'd not been there five minutes before I was arranging a taxi home. Then I went back last night after several desperate phone calls, and left again after ward round today. Hospital is not the place for me, I don't think I can recover there.

So now I am at home, daunted but determined. I have travelled as far down the path of illness as I dare and it is time now to try to turn things around. I know what I need to do in the short term, take care of myself and my animals and my environment. Long term is more hazy but I'll have to deal with that as it comes.

The crisis team won't see me anymore because they believe I need to be in hospital, so if I need help I have to go back to the ward. Which I'm determined isn't going to happen. And I'm back on citalopram, the doctor finally listened. Citalopram has always been a good med for me in many ways, even though I became suicidal on it. But one crisis does not mean it cannot work for me again. Mirtazapine just wasn't right from the beginning and I couldn't cope with the weight gain. The only benefit it had was it helped me sleep.

I don't know what has made things different. Maybe it is having some medication back in my system, maybe it is that sense of having really reached the end of the road and knowing that you are the only one who can begin to change things. But just this morning I was lying in a hospital bed hearing voices tell me everyone thought I was evil and feeling broken, feeling I could never recover from this, and now I am at home, having showered for the first time in weeks and feeling calmer and clearer than in a long while. My hope for recovery is fragile, but it is there. This has been a long and difficult episode, with but maybe it is nearly over and I will be granted at least some weeks of wellness.

Not so fine, la la

I thought everything would be fine once I was out of the blasted hospital. But I seem to have fallen down a huge hole and I can't see my way out.

But I'm done anyway, done with hospitals and medications. Went back for ward round this morning, they just don't listen. So I left without waiting for my meds and I'm not going back next week. I'll either survive or I won't. Don't suppose it matters much either way

Surreality

Yesterday morning I was in hospital, still on obs, unable to even go down to the dining room without a member of staff. Today I am on day leave at home. I have my cat on my lap and have spent the morning catching up on the internet. It all feels rather surreal.

My desperate state before I was admitted to hospital also seems bizarre to me now. I am fine, in a rather la la disconnected way. I can't even remember the sequence of events that led to me being sectioned. I just know that I seem ok again, so maybe the mirtazapine I'm on has done its job.

Or maybe the horror of being in hospital has driven me back to something approaching wellness. Hosptial is a strange purgatory. I can't tell you how much I hate it. The interminable boredom of it, the trapped fish feeling it gives you, unable to go anywhere, unable to be active, moving between your bed and the bloody day room, where you can't watch television you choose, and even if you could you probably couldn't hear it above the inane chattering of other patients. And the wretched groups. Making some crap card that the staff condescendingly congratulate you for even though its a pile of shit, banging some stupid drum in stupid music group, or listening to people making obvious and patronising points about recovery. All of it frustrates me.

I've been criticised while there for spending too much time in bed, but as I kept asking, what else is there to do? At one point the doctors were threatening to convert my section 2 into a section 3, and that would be hell. I've only just survived these past three weeks, six months would kill me. So I hope they'll discharge me. I don't see why they shouldn't. I am sleeping well and eating well (rather too well, to be honest, I am getting fat from mirtazapine and lack of exercise), and have no suicidal thoughts whatsoever. As I said, I'm fine, la la. Just maybe a little disconnected. Nothing seems quite real, it seems that nothing can touch me. So what if I've screwed up my life again and failed at what I was trying to do, so what if I've ended up sectioned again? I seem to have few emotions about it. I'm fine, la la. And so on, la la.

And as long as they discharge me from the damn hospital I'm sure I shall continue to be fine, la la.

Trapped

I want to die, its a big booming longing in my chest. I can't kill myself because of my friends. Nonetheless I have a plan, and I don't know whether to carry it out or not. I feel so unwell I don't know what to do. I think I am having a breakdown.

I had a ghastly session with the crisis team yesterday. It is rare that something succeeds in making me cry. I am thinking of making a complaint. I am tired of people who are ill being treated without compassion. It is not my fault I am ill, and I am not a bad person, yet I am being made to feel that way, told I am unfair and selfish, and don't try hard enough. It makes me sick. Sometimes when the voices are bad and I am struggling I can't speak coherently. I was told sharply to "stop talking in a silly voice". I never want that woman in my house again.

Waiting

I wait in darkness. I wait in sickness. I wait for some flicker of life or light or hope.

It sounds passive, waiting. Well, it *is* passive. I am beyond positive action, self nurturance, compassion or care. I just exist. I breathe and that's about it.

I've been on 30mg mirtazapine since Friday. I really need it to start working soon.

My psychologist has this story where I recover fully, learn to avoid mental illness and skip off into a bright future. With each relapse I believe in that story less. Now I feel I have no story, only brokenness and damage, only recurrent sickness to look forward to. I am completely without hope.

I have been seeing the crisis team. Fortunately they have been prepared to work with the high level of risk I currently pose (I am unable to guarantee my safety) and I haven't ended up back in hospital. I have been completely honest with them about my benzo use, the length and extent of it. They are seeking advice on how I can safely withdraw from them. I may see a dual diagnosis worker.

So tomorrow I will be descended on by the crisis team, including a doctor, and my social worker for a review. I can't think of anything much worse really. But somehow I am plodding on, waiting for something to change, for something to help.

(Oh, and I forgot to add that somehow I have ended up with a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. My consultant is not too happy and is going to sort it out. It was rather a shock to see it on the discharge paper! Just another NHS fuck up)