hsphaven

I went downhill since my last hospital admission a bit over a month ago. I was feeling better while in hospital, but it all turned pear shaped when I left. For a month I could not sleep at night. Just when I was about to fall asleep my heart would race and sometimes I’d feel like I was dying, dissolving into nothing. I went to a Chinese medicine clinic and got a massage hoping it would help with some of my issues, but just like a lot of my treatments, it left me worse. I now have chronic pain down my arms, hands, fingers, legs, feet and toes. I guess I started to feel extremely hopeless again, like death was my best option. I started buying things to kill myself again. I was sick of not really living, just surviving each day waiting for the day I die, whenever that would be. I felt I couldn’t wait that long; suicide was on my mind. Some nights I felt reckless. I didn’t give a fuck about my life or what people thought of me. If I had my bike on me I would have ridden around the streets at midnight. I felt like I’d discovered the secret/key to life: not giving a fuck. Some nights I danced to Midnight Oil, which reminded me of when I was 18 and would chain myself to trees or camp on rooftops. One minute I’d be leaping around my bedroom, the next I’d be collapsed in bed wishing I was dead. On top of everything else I had another sensory meltdown from the kids playing basketball next door, which I wrote about in my last post. My private psychiatrist had been suggesting a hospital admission, which I was unsure about. But that day I realised how urgent this was. I couldn’t stand one more day like this. So I called psych triage, the number my case management service gave me. I didn’t know if anyone would pick up, but someone did. I then told her what I had been going through. I was grateful that she took me seriously. She called an ambulance to take me to hospital. I then got a phone call from a psychiatric nurse who works with Ambulance Victoria. She asked me lots of questions then asked to speak with my dad, who was obliviously watching television in the other room. No one had any idea the hell I had been going though, except for my psychologist who I bombard with miserable emails every night. The psychiatric nurse told my dad that an ambulance was coming and he needed to keep an eye on me while we wait. My dad was a bit taken aback by all this. I felt like a horrible daughter, that my parents are so good to me yet I continue to disappoint them by doing nothing with my life except revolve through hospitals.

I only managed to pack a few items before the ambulance arrived. I packed some ear plugs and my ear muffs, my wallet, some mushroom microdoses and a bible. I am not a religious person, but this past month I had been wondering if I was the reincarnation of Jesus and wanted to learn more about him.

Two female paramedics arrived. They said they were here to pick up the “lovely” Zoe. They really were like angels on earth. One of them kept commending me on calling someone before I did anything. I had been feeling melodramatic over utilising emergency services and it really helped lift the guilt I had been feeling. I curled up under one of their white blankets while they drove me to hospital.

I had to wait four hours on a stretcher in the emergency department, surrounded by people who were physically sick, coughing, moaning and screaming in pain, before I was seen. Thankfully the kind paramedics stayed with me. My mum called me and told me I’d picked the worse night to go to hospital (Saturday night) and I should have stayed home. I cried a bit after that phone call as it added to my confusion around seeking help from the healthcare system again. The paramedic reassured me, telling me there was something deeper going on and I’d done the right thing coming to hospital. I asked to go to the bathroom, and while in the bathroom I took my first dose of mushrooms. I figured if anything went wrong, I was in good hands. Nothing terrible happened. When the psychiatric nurse saw me the paramedics left. It was hard to say goodbye as they were my heros. They had been so kind to me, making sure I didn’t have another sensory meltdown, and for once in my life I got the attention and care I really needed.

I was finally given a proper bed. I was given some Valium but I still couldn’t sleep. I was given some more and finally I got a bit of sleep before the nurse woke me to tell me a bed was available in the “Psychiatric Assessment and Planning Unit” (PAPU), an acute but generally short stay unit for people having mental health crises. I was taken there but the bed wasn’t actually available yet, which was frustrating. I desperately needed to crash, and ended up just curling up on the reclining chair in the hallway.

There are only four beds in PAPU, two in actual rooms with doors and the other two in curtained areas. I was given a bed in the curtained area. I could hear the women next to me speaking on the phone constantly. She spoke fast and in another language. I was about to get up and scream at her. I ended up banging on the nurse’s station door and telling them to unlock the courtyard as I’m about to lose it. I then lay down on the ground with my head against the wet outdoor beanbags that had seen better days. The nurse gave me another two tablets of Valium. All in all I had taken over 30mg of Valium that day. I then heard a girl screaming. The nurse came out and asked if it was me.

“No,” I said. “I heard it too and it scared me.”

It turns out it was one of the other patients in PAPU. The nurse apologised, telling me she was very “unwell”.

I will never hear the stories of the other patients I briefly crossed roads with in PAPU. But the doctors should not be asking what is wrong with these people, but what has happened to them. I shudder to think about it. When I was in this unit last time, one girl started screaming at 4am. Some patients are escorted in with security guards. While I never spoke with the other patients, I overheard some of what was going on with them.

“I just want this to go away,” I overheard one young girl telling someone on the phone once. “I just want to live a normal life.” They could have been my own words.

Another young girl came in and like me she just crashed. I overheard the doctor asking her if they could convince her to go back on her Lithium. I got the sense she was extremely depressed. I never heard her speak. I think she slept most of her time in PAPU. She didn’t stay long and I am not sure where she went. All I know is that I am not alone, there are people out there fighting similar demons. I kind of wanted to get to know some of the other patients, but people come and go so quickly in this ward and everyone is bogged down with their own issues. I tend to just hide away in my room. And, thankfully, I was soon given an actual room when a patient was moved to another ward.

I was given a generous stay in PAPU. Usually they only keep people for 48 hours, but they let me stay the entire week. They were concerned that I had stuff at home to kill myself with and wanted to get rid of it, but I refused to tell them what it was. Some things I have to keep to myself. I think their ears also perked when I told them I had been wondering if I was Jesus. I was told my lack of sleep was messing with my head and I was headed for psychosis. The doctor put me back on Olanzapine, which I had spent six months weaning off of. I didn’t protest as by this point I was willing to take anything that might help me sleep. I just wanted to be unconscious.

There was some talk of me going to a private hospital, under the care of my private psychiatrist, for a longer stay in hospital. But I find a lot of the rooms in that hospital noisy, and I didn’t want to have another sensory meltdown. I ended up being discharged home, and have been home for a week now. I have had a few break downs since coming home. One triggered by noise, and the other was because I couldn’t find things. I am constantly losing things, and it continues to consume my headspace until I find them. I had a break down because I lost a pair of leggings. I turned the house upside down looking for them. I found a letter from my case management services saying they’ve discharged me, found lots of old appointment cards from when I was with Jordan, but no leggings. I was angry at my dad as I thought he’d moved them (last I remember they were drying on the clothes rack), but he swears he didn’t move them. Which leaves me thinking there are parts of me which are operating completely independently, doing things, moving things, and I am not aware of what is happening.

It is always distressing leaving the safety/support of hospital and returning to a place where I have no control over my environment and don’t have my own space. This week I have just wanted to be alone. I am adjusting to being in the world again. I am doing nice things for myself, like going out for dinner. A lot of people hate going to restaurants, cinemas etc. by themselves, but I love it. I love my own company. “A women’s solitude is the furnace of metamorphosis”, a wise person said. I have sold a few of my neurodivergent badges online, and sat up all night last night reading inspiring quotes and designing new badges.

I am trying to open up to people a bit more and find the balance between oversharing and undersharing. I have been talking with one of the waitresses at my favourite restaurant. I tell her a bit about myself, and she shares some issues she’s having in return. Her honesty is a breath of fresh air. We have nothing to lose by being real. Anything we lose was fake and is not worth holding onto.

I discovered a beautiful and unusual piano piece which is on YouTube here.

I also found an interesting picture by Arantza Sestayo called “La Colline”. Maybe I was having a trippy night, but it reminded me of my internal family system of parts. Some carry the heavy rocks/trauma. Others gently lay it down and tend to it. There is a fairy who lives in her own magical world. There are those who people have not met because they are shy and hide away inside the houses. And there is an old guy sitting there smoking his pipe, unsure what to make of it all and kinda over it.

Unfortunately I couldn’t continue microdosing in hospital as the hospital confiscated the capsules I’d put in my pockets. They gave them back to me afterwards, but I’m a little anxious about taking them while on my own given my past experiences with marijuana and ayahuasca.

My sleep this week has been a little better than before I went into hospital. I am still taking the Olanzapine. I haven’t had any more anxiety attacks while falling asleep, but the Olanzapine is not enough and I often have to take sleeping pills to fall asleep. I’m not sure if I’m going to get any sleep tonight given I went to sleep at 6am and slept until 3 in the afternoon.

It is good to be able to play badminton again. My team members are really caring people. One of the ladies in my team gave me a bright teal, hand knitted scarf her family member was going to throw out. She thought I’d like it since I wear bright colours. She could tell I was feeling off last Tuesday, which was only a day after I’d been discharged. She made sure I was given time to rest between games.

I am still in pain from the massage, and this is probably the main thing bothering me. I worry it has triggered a chronic pain condition in me. I’m not sure what this next week is going to bring. If you have got this far with my post, thank you.