I left the hospital yesterday where I spent the last three weeks. It was one of the hardest days of my life. As I wrote in another post here, hospital for me is a bit like what Hogwarts is for Harry. It feels more like home than the place I live. On my last day I pressed the “Call a nurse” button twice. It takes a lot for me to press it as it’s difficult for me to ask for help. When someone presses the “Call a nurse” button the whole ward knows as the speaker in the corridor beeps and your room number is displayed on the sign at the end of the corridor. I feel melodramatic whenever I press it. During the morning I cried and I was not able to attend group. Then that evening I swore to my nurse. Everyone was in the firing line: my case management service who took away the closest relationship I had, my psychologist who keeps cancelling on me and is now taking leave, my broken, fucked up family, the neighbours who often wake me, how superficial dating sites are, how nobody reads my blog. I spent the day battling some strong urges to walk out and jump in front of a train. I was given a lot of Olanzapine to try and calm me.

Yesterday morning I was given some paperwork, which I was barely able to complete as I was so distraught about leaving. There was a questionnaire asking me to rate my mental health during the final three days. I downplayed how bad I’d been feeling as I didn’t want the hospital or insurance company to think that hospital makes me worse and not allow me to come back. The nurse then asked me what are some “protective factors” for my mental health. This lame question is asked every time and pisses me off; I could think of nothing. “How about art?” suggested the nurse, pointing at the paintings I had completed whilst in hospital.

I returned to my mum’s house yesterday while she was at work. I stood in the empty dining room and only one thought came to me: “Now what?” I no longer had the structure of group and I no longer had caring nurses tend to my emotional wellbeing. I felt as though I’d been hit by a train and left a mangled mess on the tracks. I was exhausted and the only thing I could think of to get through the rest of the day was to sleep. So I made a hot water bottle, put my phone on flight mode, crawled into bed and fell asleep. I had an appointment with my psychotherapist later that afternoon but I didn’t bother to set an alarm. I didn’t give a shit about anything anymore.

At around 5pm my mum came to my door and woke me. She told me I shouldn’t be sleeping, I will fuck up my circadian rhythm again. She left the light on, forcing me to get up so that I could turn it off. I lay in bed, reached for my phone and turned off flight mode. I was meant to see my psychotherapist at 4:30pm and he had been trying to contact me.

“Arg sorry I was discharged today and feel absolutely awful. I fell asleep and Mum just woke me,” I texted.

I proceeded to churn out more texts:

“There’s nothing therapy can do to help me.”

“Charge me for today”

“I need a place of my own away from everyone”

“Wish I was dead”

He replied: “Ok, Zoe. Thank you for the payment. I am sorry that you are feeling awful today and wish you were dead. Maybe let’s talk on a day when you are feeling a bit better and see where we go from there. I hope you get some good rest.”

“There’s not a single person I’d miss if I died,” I texted back.

“Ok. I am sorry it feels like that, Zoe.” He wrote.

When I got up my mum asked me why I was so grumpy. I yelled at her, telling her she won’t let me rest when I need to and she won’t let me make my own decisions. She told me that as long as I’m under her roof I will not be sleeping at 5pm and I will do what she wants. I told her that she does not own me and she is part of the issue. I felt like telling her that this is exactly why my sister isn’t speaking with her, but I couldn’t bring myself to be that mean. “Do you want me to kill myself?!” I screamed. I threw my toothbrush and meds in a bag, told her I’m going to Dad’s, and slammed the door shut. I got into my car and cried. I had no one and no where to go. All I could think of was suicide. I thought about going to the emergency department just down the road. I was becoming dependent on hospital as though it was a drug I couldn’t last a single day without. I told myself going back to hospital will achieve nothing, and drove to my dad’s house. I was lucky I didn’t have a crash on the way.

I told my dad about the fight with Mum. He put his arm around me, but it did not comfort me at all. While I liked being touched by the nurses in hospital, I do not want to be touched by my family. I screamed that I want to kill myself again. I also told him he treats me similarly by coming to my door when I’m in bed and telling me to go for a walk. He promised to leave me alone. I shut myself in my temporary bedroom, a small dark study next to Dad’s room with furniture from my bedroom, a mattress lying on the floor, and a mattress covering the window in attempts to block the neighbour’s noise. My bedroom is being renovated and it’s taken Dad ages to finish it, so I’ve had to sleep in this room the past year. I found a grimy glass sitting on the desk, washed it shabbily, and filled it with some coconut flavoured rum. Every time I took a sip I wanted to puke. I popped a few pills: some sleeping pills and two Olanzapine wafers which dissolve under the tongue and leave a sweet aftertaste. If I had a healthier stash of pills I probably would’ve taken more, but sleeping pills are hard to get, and I used up most of my Valium when I overdosed last time. It was only 7pm but I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until 6am. I then drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of the morning, having dreams that I was still in hospital and then realising I had been discharged and I never exchanged numbers with the other autistic patient who I bonded with. Another fleeting relationship.

Today I am feeling a bit better, though quite out of it. I took two tablets of Dexamphetamine which lifted my mood slightly and enabled me to do things rather than sit at home in a slump. I went back to Mum’s house to pick up my wallet. We ended up going out for lunch together, as if yesterday never happened. It reminded me of her relationship with Dad growing up where one minute they were screaming and hitting each other, the next they were fucking. We went into the library and I discovered a women’s writing group. I made plans to see my friend and her new baby, bought some silver sequins for my painting, went for a walk, and then came back to Dad’s house. He was out, and there is nothing I love more than coming home to an empty house. I then designed a new badge (I bought a badge maker this year). This evening I drove to Officeworks to print the pictures, and then I did some late night shopping.

My life is chaos. This past month I’ve stayed at my Mum’s house, at my Dad’s, in my friend’s beach house, and in three different hospitals. Unpacked bags sit by the door at both houses. I don’t know where anything is. While I am doing better today, I am fighting to stay afloat. I am terrified of being pulled underwater again where nothing and no one can reach me.