Lately I have been thinking about my illness in regards to the most recent years (talking about 2005 to the present), and I like to think that I have indeed gotten better and improved my mental well being. I like to think, anyway.
I still have my low weeks – currently I am in one of them. I have been having recurring dreams about the times I have spent in hospital as well as inpatient units for the treatment of my depression as well as treatment of my intermittent psychosis. I look back on how I felt before I got to the ‘let’s take our life stage’, and wonder how I can stop myself from getting back there. I thought for years that no one would notice, no one would mind. I would no longer be a burden to my family and friends, and the pain and misery would finally be over for me. Until that is, until I realised how close we were to losing my brother in the recent years. Mind you, I didn’t know how close we were until only recently (within the past 6 months or so – but leave that one for another day).
Thinking back to a previous attempt – it was horrible. Before the attempt I was so low – I hadn’t been out of bed in a few days, hadn’t eaten, had called in sick to work, I had skipped my medication out of not caring how I was treating myself (this was when I was on both antipsychotics as well as antidepressants – before I was yet again re-diagnosed). Couldn’t be bothered with anything, and had a pit in my stomach that just wouldn’t disappear. I felt as though nothing could get better, and figured it was time (once again) to depart this world. I wrote a final goodbye to those whom I cared for, tidied my room and set to work of getting out my stash. After taking around 80 of one type of pills and 30 of another, washing it down with some vodka and having what I thought would be my last cigarette, I curled up in bed. Before I knew it I had those pounding heart palpitations that I had experienced the times before, the swirling head and swishing stomach. My body felt heavy, and after a while my legs started to spasm. I knew it wouldn’t be long until I could finally rest.
I remember staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep/pass out when I got a message from a friend. He didn’t say much, but it was what I needed to hear. He knew it had been a hard week for me, and simply said that he ‘was here for me.’ It had been so long since someone; anyone had verbalised something such as that to me. Suddenly I felt myself thinking how disappointed and ashamed my mother would be of me having done something so darn selfish. How could I leave her without an explanation other than what was in that letter I had typed out earlier?
Suddenly I had a strange, strange feeling. One that had never accompanied any of the other attempts – I suddenly wanted to live. I wanted to see my mother, make things right before I finally departed this world. How could I have at all thought that a simple typed letter would ever suffice?!
Trying to crawl out of bed, my extremities were already numb. Sitting up; and my head spun. Trying to concentrate and focus on my feet made me nauseous. It took me 10 minutes to get to the bathroom. I had tears streaming down my face as I cradled the ceramic bowl. Using every ounce of strength I had, I pulled myself up – the movement on its own managed to make me vomit.
I remember waking up to bright lights and feeling heavy and groggy. My head was in unexplainable pain. I look down to find a name tag on my wrist; I proceed to trace my finger along my name and allergies when I notice a red tag behind the first. I turn it and to my horror and confusion, it reads ‘S.H, S.I, S.U’. Anyone but nursing staff would look at these letters and wonder what on earth they could stand for. But I knew them all too well, I had even written them in my own progress notes at work. Self harm, Suicidal ideations, substance user.
All of a sudden I remembered what had happened. However I wondered how I had made it to the hospital. Looking at the clock, it was 8pm. I attempted sitting up, when a nurse came by doing her rounds. She filled me in that I had been found on the floor, had possibly had a seizure and knocked myself out cold from hitting my head when failing trying to stand up (hence the sore head). Through vomiting beyond the volume of my stomach, I had lost blood and a lot of fluid so hence the drip. She went on to say that I would be on an involuntary treatment order for a minimum of 72 hours – beginning when I was well enough to transfer from the medical ward to the psychiatric ward. I would not be able to leave until I was deemed safe to, via the treatment team – and so begun the beginning of a seemingly significant part of my past.
I still have my low weeks – currently I am in one of them. I have been having recurring dreams about the times I have spent in hospital as well as inpatient units for the treatment of my depression as well as treatment of my intermittent psychosis. I look back on how I felt before I got to the ‘let’s take our life stage’, and wonder how I can stop myself from getting back there. I thought for years that no one would notice, no one would mind. I would no longer be a burden to my family and friends, and the pain and misery would finally be over for me. Until that is, until I realised how close we were to losing my brother in the recent years. Mind you, I didn’t know how close we were until only recently (within the past 6 months or so – but leave that one for another day).
Thinking back to a previous attempt – it was horrible. Before the attempt I was so low – I hadn’t been out of bed in a few days, hadn’t eaten, had called in sick to work, I had skipped my medication out of not caring how I was treating myself (this was when I was on both antipsychotics as well as antidepressants – before I was yet again re-diagnosed). Couldn’t be bothered with anything, and had a pit in my stomach that just wouldn’t disappear. I felt as though nothing could get better, and figured it was time (once again) to depart this world. I wrote a final goodbye to those whom I cared for, tidied my room and set to work of getting out my stash. After taking around 80 of one type of pills and 30 of another, washing it down with some vodka and having what I thought would be my last cigarette, I curled up in bed. Before I knew it I had those pounding heart palpitations that I had experienced the times before, the swirling head and swishing stomach. My body felt heavy, and after a while my legs started to spasm. I knew it wouldn’t be long until I could finally rest.
I remember staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep/pass out when I got a message from a friend. He didn’t say much, but it was what I needed to hear. He knew it had been a hard week for me, and simply said that he ‘was here for me.’ It had been so long since someone; anyone had verbalised something such as that to me. Suddenly I felt myself thinking how disappointed and ashamed my mother would be of me having done something so darn selfish. How could I leave her without an explanation other than what was in that letter I had typed out earlier?
Suddenly I had a strange, strange feeling. One that had never accompanied any of the other attempts – I suddenly wanted to live. I wanted to see my mother, make things right before I finally departed this world. How could I have at all thought that a simple typed letter would ever suffice?!
Trying to crawl out of bed, my extremities were already numb. Sitting up; and my head spun. Trying to concentrate and focus on my feet made me nauseous. It took me 10 minutes to get to the bathroom. I had tears streaming down my face as I cradled the ceramic bowl. Using every ounce of strength I had, I pulled myself up – the movement on its own managed to make me vomit.
I remember waking up to bright lights and feeling heavy and groggy. My head was in unexplainable pain. I look down to find a name tag on my wrist; I proceed to trace my finger along my name and allergies when I notice a red tag behind the first. I turn it and to my horror and confusion, it reads ‘S.H, S.I, S.U’. Anyone but nursing staff would look at these letters and wonder what on earth they could stand for. But I knew them all too well, I had even written them in my own progress notes at work. Self harm, Suicidal ideations, substance user.
All of a sudden I remembered what had happened. However I wondered how I had made it to the hospital. Looking at the clock, it was 8pm. I attempted sitting up, when a nurse came by doing her rounds. She filled me in that I had been found on the floor, had possibly had a seizure and knocked myself out cold from hitting my head when failing trying to stand up (hence the sore head). Through vomiting beyond the volume of my stomach, I had lost blood and a lot of fluid so hence the drip. She went on to say that I would be on an involuntary treatment order for a minimum of 72 hours – beginning when I was well enough to transfer from the medical ward to the psychiatric ward. I would not be able to leave until I was deemed safe to, via the treatment team – and so begun the beginning of a seemingly significant part of my past.
