I’m reaching a point where I just don’t care anymore. As the song “Suicide Is Painless” goes, “The game of life is hard to play, I’m gonna lose it anyway. The losing card I’ll someday lay, so this is all I have to say”. Before I was in hospital I was reckless. I was up all night, and if I had my bike on me I would have ridden around the streets during the early hours of the morning. My motto lately seems to be: “Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, shouting “holy shit…. what a ride!” Continue reading “Internal family systems, identity and recklessness”
Didn’t you know time is not a straight line? Sometimes it goes backward. Sometimes my mind is in a different place than my body. Sometimes life breaks us into different selves and those selves still believe they live in the “past”, in the time they were created. Sometimes returning to the “present” is like swimming to the surface of a deep well. Continue reading “Time traveler”
I find myself thinking of Fred from when I was at university eleven years ago. I was nineteen, fresh out of high school and soaking up all the different clubs the university had where I could finally meet my people. I found The Greens Club table and got talking with a tall, lanky guy with blond hair. It was the first time I had a real conversation. A conversation about the environment. A conversation about the state of the world. It was the first time I met someone who cared about the same things as me, something which I was bullied for in high school. Fred was thirty. He was studying business and wanted to open an organic healthfood store. He asked if he could give me a hug after our conversation. We hugged. I hoped I would see him again. Continue reading “Sleep and thinking about the past”
I gaze out the hospital window to a quaint garden. On the other side is the brick psychiatry consulting suits. The building has two storeys. My eyes fall on a little porch with a lone chair. It seems like something that would appeal more to a poet or a philosopher rather than a doctor, or the modern psychiatrist at least.
How lovely it would be if patients could sit in the garden. But it is a secret garden, a garden that is out of reach, like my healing. I cannot even open my window to take in the fresh air. Real fresh air, not the pungent scent of artificial air fresheners which get into my room and invade my nostrils.
I hear some birds outside. Spring is on the way. But inside I feel trapped in August, like parts of me remain trapped in youth or childhood, in lives beyond lives. Trapped in the bitterness of winter, hope just a tease. In my world, in my mind, Spring doesn’t really come. I can see it happening around me but I am trapped behind glass.
Once there were two sisters who lived in the forest of Lothlorien. The youngest was five. Her name was Sara, which means “princess”. The elder of the two was named Serphena which means “burning one”. Serphena’s love for her sister was fierce, fighting away all of Sara’s fears. The two were inseparable. One day they travelled deep into the forest, dressed in their white gowns which contrasted against the darkness slowly swallowing the two. Then, Serphena disappeared, and Sara was left alone in the forest without her sister by her side. Her sister never came back in human form, but her burning spirit lived on in the forest. She became the wildfire which Sara and her family fled from, unable to recognise it as Serphena. Sara and her family crossed still, stagnant lakes and eventually reached the safety of the township. But something in Sara died the day her sister went away. She was never the same “princess”. She became a feral child. She felt abandoned by her sister so abandoned her family, frequently running away and throwing her nice clothing away. The lack of answers or proper endings haunted her. She was forever looking. Forever hoping. Forever lost.
Once there were two sisters who lived in the forest of Lothlorien. The youngest was five. Her name was Sara, which means “princess”. The elder of the two was named Serphena which means “burning one”. Serphena’s love for her sister was fierce, fighting away all of Sara’s fears. The two were inseparable. One day they travelled deep into the forest, dressed in their white gowns which contrasted against the darkness slowly swallowing the two. Then, Serphena disappeared, and Sara was left alone in the forest without her sister by her side. Her sister never came back in human form, but her burning spirit lived on in the forest. She became the wildfire which Sara and her family fled from, unable to recognise it as Serphena. Sara and her family crossed still, stagnant lakes and eventually reached the safety of the township. But something in Sara died the day her sister went away. She was never the same “princess”. She became a feral child. She felt abandoned by her sister and abandoned her family, frequently running away and throwing her nice clothing away. The lack of answers or proper endings haunted her. She was forever looking. Forever hoping. Forever lost.
Today I left the public psych ward I spent a bit over a week in. Most people would consider me lucky. I am now in a private hospital with my private psychiatrist who I like, but it has not been easy. I was put in a ward with a loud air vent. I ended up shoving the mattress under the table and leaning the bed base against the table to dampen down the drone, creating a kind of triangular cubby. My nurse was amused by my creativity. She told me it’s the kind of thing her cat used to like, but I had to take it down as it was considered a hazard. Thankfully I have now moved wards. I am hoping this room will be better. It has a nice garden view, and I am no longer hiding under a table. Continue reading “Private vs public psych hospitals”
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. Continue reading “In hospital (again)”
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. Continue reading “My recent stay in hospital (again)”
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