Over the weekend my OCD was bad. I was upset that I couldn’t find some items of clothing, some of which had sentimental value to me. I couldn’t let it go. I paced around the house until I was delirious. My dad and I talk about there being a “black hole” in the house. Things just disappear. But my weekend was still a bit better than I was expecting. I discovered a term for the “attacks” I’ve been getting (such as the one I wrote about here): dissociative seizures. On Sunday I took some dexamphetamine, which gave me a little high and a push to go out. The drug wears off quickly, but still I will take any break in the clouds there is. Over the weekend my suicidal urges settled down a bit too. But they came back in full force last night. I woke up in the night after having a dream about my old case worker. I was so sad that I wanted to kill myself. This is what I feared most when I was discharged from hospital…. the dreams, the reminders, the waves of grief/trauma that keep on crashing over me at all hours and not having the support of the hospital. In the end I got back to sleep but had to get up this morning to see my new case worker. I don’t know why I agreed to see her in the morning. I was drunk when I agreed to this! At least she was willing to see me in a café as I cannot step foot in the clinic without being triggered now. My dad kind of hijacked the meeting and went on about how they should change my diagnosis from BPD to Complex PTSD. I’m just so over it all. I felt absolutely dreadful this morning and just wanted to cry. I went back to bed the minute I got home. I was going to see a friend today. It’s her last day farm-sitting and she invited me to see the animals. Unfortunately I missed out. Continue reading “Update: the weekend, badminton and suicidal ideation”
I do not deal well with change, whether that’s a change in therapist, a computer update which changes the layout, or a change in location. I am like a plane where the taking off and landing are both tricky. I knew leaving hospital was going to be hard, but no one expected it to be this distressing. Continue reading “Discharge day”
I have been with my case worker for three years. He is like a best friend to me, even though I know he can’t be. When I saw him last he told me to call him if I got manic or psychotic again. He really seemed to care about me. He gave me an appointment card for our next appointment, as usual. I called him before our next appointment as I wasn’t feeling good. At the end of the phone call he told me he’d speak to me soon. A few days later the manager and psychiatrist told me they were changing my case worker. That was the day the floor beneath my feet, which was only just starting to mend after a series of losses and longstanding mental health issues, caved in. Something broke that day…. Something within me, and almost something outside of me too as I very nearly smashed the clinic’s window. Continue reading “Suicide is not irrational”
I was lying in bed watching some TV the other evening, thinking it’d be an escape from ruminating about my case worker. I watched Call The Midwife (series 11, episode 7). At the end of the show, there was a train crash. The following quote was then narrated:
“Sometimes the sky rips open, and the earth erupts beneath our feet. We stand if we can stand at all, exposed and vulnerable. Pathetic in our frailty. Bruised and bleeding. We are rendered merely human, never more fragile, never more at risk, never more in need of all the strength that we can find.” Continue reading “Traumatic stress attack”
Borderline Personality Disorder,
The borderline between public and private.
No one wants you,
For you are too “sick” for the private hospital, but too “well” for the public. Continue reading “The Borderline”
Staring at a blank page.
Staring at my life.
The hole that was left when you were ripped away.
This pain has no words.
Nor location in my body.
I watch the clock,
How much longer do I have to endure this stupid art therapy?
Creativity stifled by the awareness of six other people sitting around me.
Loneliness even greater when I have company.
I am convinced they hate me.
Maybe it is because I am so unfriendly,
Avoiding eye contact,
Cringing when people move closer to me.
Feeling eyes on me and my miserable piece of writing
Which hardly qualifies as art.
Maybe it is my butch attire.
The way I’ve scrunched my long hair into a beanie,
My black tee which I bought from the men’s section.
Knee length shorts and unshaven legs.
My fringe which has become somewhat of a side fringe as I haven’t bothered to cut it for so long.
People will always find a reason to hate me.
But I don’t care what these people think.
I don’t want to be friends with them.
Life is better without friends.
Without the fretting when someone doesn’t reply to your message
Without the grief which is the price of love,
Grief so painful you’d rather die.
My biggest mistake in life was to care.
I now attempt to resurrect the fortress which once encased my heart.
The walls which now lie in ruins around me,
As though a war has ripped through this place.
This morning I fell asleep and I had a dream where I saw this girl in this grassy, breezy yard. I recognised her as myself, but she was beautiful. She didn’t have any imperfections like I do. Her teeth were perfect and she didn’t wear glasses. She still had my long brown hair. I’m not sure what age she was. I don’t know where I was. There was a house there, lots of people whom I didn’t know, and then a back yard which stretched into the horizon, a little like here. It was rugged and bare. There was a familiar desolate feeling to the whole place. While it was not a horrible place, I wanted to return to my life, but I couldn’t wake up. I don’t know if the people wanted to help me or keep me trapped there. They had suggestions like roll over in your bed so that you fall onto the floor and shock yourself awake. But I had no contact with my body and my life. Just when I thought I’d woken up I found it was another dream. This kept on happening over and over. I couldn’t wake up. I was trapped inside my subconscious mind again and it was terrifying. I assumed I must be dead. Finally I managed to wake up. It was like swimming to the surface of a deep well. Then my nurse came to the door. I asked her whether this was real or whether it was all just a dream too. She said it was real. I had wanted to end my life, but I was so relieved to be back. So that is how my day started. Continue reading “Last day in the psych ward”
I write this post from the corner desk of my bedroom in the psych ward. I was in this ward when I was 24, and here I am again six years later. I’m in here for the exact same reason: losing a mental health worker who I love. Most people would not understand the bonds I form with mental health workers. But this mental health worker was so much more to me than a mental health worker. He was like a best friend, a brother, maybe even a parental figure. When people ask how I am, I think I will just tell them I’m sad because I’ve lost someone I love. I won’t tell them who it is. Or that they are still alive, that I am grieving the living. Even though he is not dead he may as well be as I will never be able to see him again. I am being offered two “closure” sessions with him and that’s it. My life feels like a broken record repeating over and over. Continue reading “In the psych ward”
hsphaven 