hsphaven

As I drove down the mountain to my Monday psychology session, my eyes fell on the cluster of tall buildings in the distance. Not far enough to be Melbourne city, but a mini city. I was guessing it must be Box Hill. Little did I know I’d end up there later that day. I cycled through a million different mood states during the half hour drive to my psychologist. Mostly frustration and anger. Anger at how much effort everything was. Anger that I put my trust in a massage therapist who ended up buggering up my body even more. Anger about having such an annoying, noisy neighbour. I tried to get away from his hammering in every room of the house but I could still hear it. I never know when he’s going to start making noise during the day, and I was only hanging on by a thin string. If he started in the morning when I sleep and woke me that would be my breaking point.

I haven’t been sure exactly what happened on Monday, though now am thinking it was the anniversary of a trauma; the body really does remember. We tried to do preparatory work for EMDR, imaging a “wise figure” and a “safe space”. I couldn’t concentrate as I all I wanted to do was cry. I expressed a desire to kill myself. As we neared the end of the session I started to “implode”. It is like having an invisible breakdown. Violently collapsing inwards. Falling back into yourself. Nothing much shows on the surface. I remembered I had two sleeping pills in my wallet and told my psychologist I was going to take them to take the edge off this horrible, distressing state. She was concerned about my safety and didn’t want me to drive while on sleeping pills. I told her it was fine, their effect on me is only subtle, but she was still concerned. She ended up getting her receptionist to call psych triage, and when they couldn’t get through, she asked her to call 000. It all seemed a bit extreme, but it was nice that they cared so much. My psychologist had a class in 20 minutes but she stayed with me until the ambulance arrived, which took at least an hour. Some police officers arrived first. By this point I was lying on the floor of the office non-verbal. I could only communicate by nodding or shaking my head. My psychologist held my hand. She translated things for me. I was touched by her kindness and ability to read my body language. She could tell when I was getting agitated. The police officers found the pills in my wallet. I never got them back.

When the ambulance finally arrived they brought the stretcher as close as they could. I struggled to stand but I managed to get onto the stretcher with the help of the paramedic. I was wheeled into the back of the ambulance. They decided to take me to Box Hill hospital.

The public healthcare system is stretched thin. I was taken to the emergency department and there were approximately ten patients on stretchers lined up in the hallway waiting for a bed. They had to be treated in the hallway by paramedics as there was no bed. At one point there was only one paramedic looking after three patients.

I saw a person from psych triage. I had only just started recovering my voice and could barely answer her questions. My arms were frozen in odd positions. She said that I was “thought blocking” and my presentation was completely different to when I was in hospital only a week ago.

“I was expecting someone more lively,” were her words.

Despite this, she didn’t want to give me an admission. After all this she wanted to send me back home. After speaking with her I broke down crying loudly as my paramedics wheeled me back to our spot in the corridor.

It was getting late and my dad had gone to bed so I had no one to pick me up. In the end, the psych lady let me stay, even though she didn’t really know what it would achieve. I was told I needed to have a covid test, then wait two hours for the result. After they swabbed my mouth and nostrils I was then asked to wait in the waiting room where everyone who self-presents to hospital has to wait. They wanted to free up the paramedic to attend to other patients. I didn’t feel comfortable with this. It had been a 000 call as my psychologist was concerned about my safety and they wanted to just dump me in the waiting area without anyone staying with me. I said I didn’t feel comfortable sitting with several other patients, but they said there was a spot that was a bit more private. Then then took me out to some seats where the lights were dimmed and there were few patients. As soon as the paramedic left, I started to freak out. I felt all alone and vulnerable, as I have felt most of my life. There were two seats which didn’t have arm rests, so there was enough room to lie down. I curled up on the seats but couldn’t sleep. I felt like one of the ladies sitting near me was talking about me and criticising me. I felt like my paranoid, fifteen-year-old self.

After about two and a half hours I got a text on my phone saying my covid test was negative. I waited for somebody to come out and take me to the psychiatric ward, but no one came. A doctor kept coming out asking for the elusive “Jennifer” or “John”, like a stuck record. Finally at about 1:30am a young lady called my name. I grabbed my bag and went to leave, until she told me that there was no bed and I’d have to wait here until the morning. I couldn’t believe it. I had become non-verbal again, so texted my responses to her on my phone then showed it to her. She brought me some white hospital blankets and tea. I was in for a long night.

I decided I just wanted to go home, but the trains had stopped for the night, my dad had turned off his phone and my only way back was a taxi. But I couldn’t speak, so I couldn’t call for one. I asked the man at reception in text to call a taxi but he said they wanted me to stay. I went back to my seat. Another man sat down near me. He told the staff he was there because he was getting horrible nightmares. I cringed having him in my personal space, as well as patients coughing near me. I wanted to just crawl into a hole. The man fell asleep with his feet a metre away from me. I was becoming increasingly agitated. I lay down for a bit, then sat up, lay down then sat up. I pressed my feet into the ground and rubbed them up and down over and over. I asked the man at reception for some Valium but he wouldn’t give me any. I went back to my seat. “Jennifer”, called one of the doctors for the fourth time. I felt like I was going crazy. In the end I got up and started screaming and throwing the chairs in front of everyone. Two men grabbed my arms and sat me down, trying to calm me. The young lady I saw earlier who was from the psychiatric team immediately showed up. She brought me into a room and we had a chat. I was finally given some Valium. It was sad that it had to come to this to get the help I needed.

I made it through the rest of the night and then was given a bed in the emergency department. I put earplugs in my ears and industrial earmuffs over the top to block the sound of the monitors beeping. Finally I started to get to sleep but then was put in a wheelchair and taken to the psychiatric unit. When we got there I curled up on a chair outside the nurse’s station, an office encased by thick glass. The ward was old. Strips of paint had pealed off the walls and some areas had been shabbily repainted. My bag was searched and I was swiped with a metal detector. I was then led to my room. On my way to my room I passed another young girl about my age, who I was told would be my room mate. I was horrified; I didn’t know that I would be sharing a room with another person. She seemed nice and said she’d give me space and we’d negotiate our needs, but nothing could make me feel any better. I was autistic, socially anxious and needed my own space. When I saw our room I was shocked there was a huge gap at the top of the bathroom door and no lock. You could hear each other peeing. I thought there was no way I could use this bathroom. Something I also noticed was that there was no “call a nurse” button in the room. This was the first hospital I’d been in without this button. I crawled into bed and cried. My room mate came to the side of my bed and comforted me like a nurse would. She told me a bit about herself and that she was sensitive to noise and lights as well. I still continued to cry for the rest of the day. My room mate left me alone to rest. Once I had the room to myself I screamed. No body heard me. I wanted to leave, but I wasn’t allowed to. While I had come in as a “voluntary” patient, I was now apparently on an “assessment order” and couldn’t leave before seeing the psychiatrist the following day. I started fantasising my escape.

I wasn’t expecting to get any sleep that night. I was given olanzapine, which is meant to be sedating, but it does little for me. I then took two tablets of temazepam, which usually help, but it did nothing either. Finally I took two tablets of Valium and I got a little bit of sleep.

Earlier during my stay here my stress levels were so high I would wet my pants at night. I am starting to settle in now though, and while the doctor has allowed me to leave, I want to stay. I feel less alone in here. In the outside world, no body talks about their mental health. When you ask how someone is, the answer is usually “good”. But in here you realise you’re not the only one struggling. People scream, cry and swear. I made friends with a shy, 21-year-old girl who has an eating disorder but is in here because she attempted suicide. I am even friends with my room mate now. She helps me and I help her. She sat down on my bed and showed me the pamphlets of the drugs the doctor is thinking of giving her. I told her what they were, as I have been on so many drugs I pretty much know them all now. My room mate spends most of her day outside the room so I am getting my own space which is nice.

This hospital is one of the most insane hospitals I’ve been in. Sometimes I wonder what I am doing in a place like this. The other evening when I was painting an old lady came up to me and took my phone and my painting. I got my phone back but she wouldn’t give me back the painting. She was mumbling all kind of nonsense. I had to drag her and the painting to the nurse’s station. I knocked on the door and a nurse came out. The lady then finally let go of my painting. She also tries to take other people’s medications when the nurses try to hand them to the patient. The other night she even tried to take ME, putting her arm around my arm. The people in this ward have a range of different issues and we are all lumped into this nut house together. There is one man who doesn’t stop playing music on his phone. Even at 2am he’s up roaming around the nurse’s station in his wheel chair blasting music from his phone. He doesn’t seem to sleep. A lot of patients don’t. I am usually able to sleep with two tablets of temazepam, but here I require even more drugs.

My room mate goes to bed early so I take my laptop outside so my typing doesn’t wake her. Last night there was a girl in the women’s living room and I felt too anxious to write with her around, so I sat on the floor at the end of the ward. A large security guard then approached me and told me I had to move. I moved to the seat outside the nurse’s station. He approached me again and aggressively told me to move. I asked him why, I’m not disturbing anyone. He said he was going to take the chair away. I asked him why, and he couldn’t give me an answer, just demanded that I move.

“You shouldn’t even be up,” he told me.

I told him this is stupid but moved. Then when I took my sleeping tablets a little later I told the nurses I wanted to make a complaint about him. I find it ridiculous and uncalled for the way he spoke to me. Then in the middle of the night a patient hangs around the area blasting music and he is not reprimanded like I was. Other patients swear at the nurses.

“You don’t get to tell me when I do and do not sleep, fucking cunt!” one member exclaimed to a female nurse.

I don’t really want to kill myself, just sometimes I feel that is the only way to end the pain. My chronic physical pain is making me really depressed. I’ve been asking my dad for some favours, like to deliver some parcels for me. I said I was sorry for all the favours. He told me “When you were born in 1992 at the Mercy Hospital in East Melbourne, I was so thrilled to see you, my miracle gift of God’s love, I told Him that I would do anything for you.” I want to try and stay alive for my dad and the people who care about me. I can feel it now but it can be hard to feel it when you’re so depressed and have c-ptsd and BPD. You just think everyone hates you and want you gone and you’re a burden.

Today I received a very different text from my dad saying he is in trouble with his diabetes. He told me he has pain in his legs and is worried his legs will have to be amputated. He feels like giving up and dying prematurely. He asked for my prayers. I was so saddened to hear this. I showed the text to one of the nurses and she helped a lot. She suggested organising a “welfare check” where the police visit your house to check up on you, but I said this would overwhelm my poor dad, who has not had a good experience with police. She ended up calling my mum and I was given some Valium to help settle me. My mum was going to send someone from my dad’s church around to check on him. I asked some of my spiritual friends to pray for my dad as well. My mum said I shouldn’t have to deal with this right now. I ended up going back to bed and I felt better after a nap.

Last night I fell asleep without any sleeping pills. I had a dream that it was my final year of school. I wanted to move back to my first high school. The reason I left was because I had a falling out with my friends, and then was bullied by the same girl who bullied me in prep. I ended up leaving the school, even though there were people there who wanted to be my friend. I woke up at 4am crying. I was still hung up on the decision I made to leave this school. I was miserable at the two other high schools I went to. There was only one year I had a group of friends with whom I belonged, and I missed them. It was such a stupid, petty fight we had. It has been fifteen years. They have probably moved on with their lives and don’t think of me any more, but I have never moved on from what happened. I remain stuck at this age, biologically 30 but mentally still a teenager.

I don’t expect to be here much longer, which is a shame as I have settled into this place now, am enjoying their activities such as their afternoon walks, and am doing a bit better. The doctor has written a referral to the private hospital my community psychiatrist works at. Change is particularly hard for an autistic person, and a lot of the rooms in that hospital have noisy air vents. As strange as it is, I will miss this place.

I will finish this post now as my battery is about to die and the hospital takes the charging cables as they worry patients will strangle themselves with them.