Part Two

Part two is different.  Part two is less about the fighting, however still contains anger and a fair bit of just sucking it up.

I am on in the inside of this place, I am an inpatient.  I have to ask for towels to take a shower, I have to ask for hot water for my coffee, I have to ask for a tv remote, I have to ask if I am allowed outside with a friend.  I am not trusted here.  I am here because my mind is not well.  Just writing that sentence is hard.  I know I am not well, that my brain is broken and  I don’t like being not well. I want my life back, but I cant fix this unwell anymore.  Its not a black dog that I can shoo away.

The psychiatrist sectioned me for another 14 days.  I knew she had to do that.  I actually wanted her to do that as I knew I was not safe.  This was the first pill that I just had to swallow.  I still cried when she signed the paperwork.  I still threw a tantrum, but this was out of frustration at myself and anger at my brain.  I was angry that my brain was broken and my inability to be able to fix it.

I was dysregulated;  I had times of clarity and the odd time of absolute despair  Despair often came alongside the anger.  Despair and anger over not understanding why my brain was acting this way.  It wasn’t getting any better, in fact I felt it was getting worse.

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One afternoon I was just lying on me bed in my room feeling so very alone.  Tears are streaming down my face. No reason to feel alone as I had just had a great outing to the gym with some friends –  some laughs afterwards, but now I am alone.  My head tells me I am alone, that I have no-one. I am sad.   All these supporters on the sidelines are not there – my head tells me so.  I don’t know where they have gone, but they aren’t there.  I have one choice.  One choice only and that is to die.  It is kind of hard killing yourself in a facility set up to stop you hurting yourself however my brain doesn’t think very rationally.  I decide that I will smash my bedroom window and get the glass to hurt myself.  I am strong, I am fit, and this glass will be a piece of cake.  I thought the only issue would be getting the glass and using it before the staff come running after hearing the noise.

I don’t want to feel this way,  but there is no other answer.  I am sobbing so hard that my breathing almost works itself into a panic attack, but I cough that out, and cry and cry.  Deep sobbing.  I am aware that my brain is lost, but can’t change a thing.

Chair vs Glass, Round 1 – Bang –  Fuck, that chair leg bounced off that glass. Bang, Bang.  Didn’t even make a mark on the window.  Throw the chair down.  I hear staff scrambling “who is banging?”.  A nurse opens my door and checks on me and says “oh sorry”.

Chair vs Glass, Round 2 – Must use more strength. Bang, Bang, Bang, yeah, making marks on the glass. I am getting there.  Bang.  Fuck the chair leg has broken.  More rustling and someone comes in “oh, we can’t have you doing that” but does nothing. She doesn’t take the chair away but she asks me what I need.  I tell her that I need her to go away, so she does. I just cry some more.

Chair Vs Glass, Round 3 – Bang, Bang.  Fuck this isn’t working.  Of course they are going to have super strengthened glass in a place like this.  How about the top window.  I can force it open.

I am crying and trying to breath but I can’t breath.  I am using all my force to move the window open wider – hoping the glass will snap.  The window moves, it even bends agains the security stays.  I am standing on my bed and have climbed half on the windowsill trying to push the window.  I want the air from outside but I also want to break the glass.

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In walks Smurfy Angel.  I call her that as she is in her blue nurse uniform and she acts like I imagine and angel would act.  She doesn’t tell me off, she doesn’t sound alarmed. Smurfy Angel has a calm voice and she wants me to match her breathing, she wants me to slow down.  I want to slow down too as I can’t get out the fucking window.  I have failed.  I can’t even break the glass so I feel very pathetic.

Smurfy Angel gets me to breathe in and breathe out, and slows my body down enough to take some medication. She knows I need space.  Out we go and sit on the grass. I can see the sky and feel the breeze on my face.  Slowly my breathing calms down, but I am crying.  I cant stop crying. I am crying as I cannot see a way out of my head. I don’t want to die, but I so very much do want to die.  Thats how much my head is making sense. Smurfy Angel is right there with me, talking a little, responding to my fears, responding to my pain.  She knows what to say.  She is an Angel.  The medications start to take effect, and I calm into a snooze in the sunshine”

The next morning it was time to see the Psychiatrist again.  I had seen her plenty of times before. I had argued with her, pleaded with her but never really had a proper conversation with her,  so I was looking forward to seeing her and communicating like an adult.

She asks how I am and I tell her that I have stopped fighting.  She laughs, and reminds me of the chair incident.  No, that wasnt fighting, that was me trying to get glass to kill myself.  I think I see her eyebrow raise ever so slightly.  We speak, we share information, we involve family in the conversation.  Then I ask her what she thinks is going on with my brain. She gives me her viewpoint.  Well blow me down.  This was not something I expected and immediately my mind goes into overdrive.  No-one else in the room seemed to react. My sister was on the phone and she didn’t say anything.  Was she dumbfounded?  Tears pour down my cheeks.  My mind almost goes into panic mode. Am I ever going to be “normal” again? Am I forever going to be medicated?  Will I ever be able to look after my baby boy again?  Will I ever be able to work?  I cried and cried but I didn’t have a tantrum.  That was the one positive that I could take out of that meeting.

The following days my mind was in disarray.  So many questions, so little answers.  Dr Google had plenty to say.  Was this me really?  Had there been missed opportunities to have this diagnosed at a younger age.  What was playing strongly on my mind was “had the psychiatrist got all the correct information from my support crew”.  Did she diagnose this only based on recent events.  Recent events that were becoming a lot clearer to me.  Recent events that involved dishonestly, betrayal, manipulation and control.  Surely that alone is enough to make anyone act out?

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I still dont understand and unfortunately for me, I chose to break my brain when it was the holiday season.  People go on holiday, agencies shut down, people have a break.  I am having my break in Hillmorton, whilst the professionals are probably having a break in a sunny, relaxing place.  I need those professionals,  particularly the psychologist, but none are available.  Desperately I want to understand my brain.  Why did it do this, why are my thoughts so strong and so dark. Why do I want to kill myself.  I am not depressed, and I don’t feel depressed.  Sure I know what depression is, but this sure isn’t it. But I sit, I exist in this facility just waiting. I am waiting for someone to help me unravel what has happened.  I wake up, I do things, I sometimes eat (rarely), I think, I walk, I write, I wait and I sleep. Waiting for the country to come back to reality after their holiday. I want to do something.  I feel a little better, but I want to get better faster.  Baby steps – thats what everyone says to me.  Baby Steps.  Think about it if you had a broken limb; no-one would hurry you back to normality of life if you broke your leg, so slow down….baby steps.

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