Depression / Inpatient / Mental Health / Recovery

TWO WEEKS

A lot can happen in two weeks. You can lose everything, as so many people around the world are now discovering. You can become isolated, locked away, afraid and no longer in control of your life.

I am not unique.

For reasons as individual as each person that populates our little planet orbiting a giant ball of fire, a lot can happen in two weeks. Hey, a lot can happen in a day! For me it’s not isolation, fear and lack of control in relation to covid-19, it’s my mental health. Mental health that’s taken a cocktail of speed, cocaine and magic mushrooms. I’ve never indulged in illicit substances but I imagine everything speeds up, goes out of control and becomes utterly surreal. Just like living in a psych ward.

Please don’t go away and test this theory.

This is my 15th night in a psychiatric hospital – a long way from home and my nearest and dearest. All because of my spectacular fall from grace on Monday 02 March. I’ve never been this mentally ill before or felt so rejected, misunderstood and judged. Ironically the global pandemic makes me feel less isolated as I’m not alone in my isolation – half the world is now alone and afraid too. Misery enjoys company. But I’m slowly coming to the very belated realisation, I am utterly alone in this recovery process.

Here’s a brief rundown on my stay so far:

• Overdose Monday 02 March
• Admitted Tuesday 10 March
• 8 nights in ICU
• 8th night (and counting) in the General Ward
• Diagnosed as bipolar 2
• Referred to Psychiatrist, Psychologist and dietitian
• Stopped antidepressant/antianxiety medication
• Started mood stabilising drugs
• Attending three group psychology sessions per day
• Given a meal plan

So you’d think with all that care and support I’d be rocking it by now. I’m not. Changing medications isn’t fun. Emotions already pumped with steroids are now in freefall – antidepressant disappearing, mood stabilising drugs yet to reach a therapeutic dose. My emotional roller coaster has exceeded the recommended safety limitations.

I spent eight nights in ICU because it took that long for staff to feel confident I was safe. Safe being code for not suicidal or intent on self-harm. I’ve been warned to keep my thoughts safe or I’ll be sent back. I’m asked daily where my thoughts are – do I have thoughts of self-harm or suicide? This is tricky to answer as having thoughts is not the same as intent or planning. I don’t remember not having thoughts of suicide. Self-harm has been a part of my life for over five years. It’s my normal.

For now, I’m not suicidal or intent on self-harm and accept I’m here for an extended stay – most likely until early May.

The above image – of a simple sandwich and small tub of yoghurt, utterly terrified me.

As levels and levels of control become stripped away, eating disorder voices yell even louder making me want to take control of something in my life. So I started eating less and less – justifying every food I missed – until I ended up with three days of no food.

At that point the nurses became strict. The psychiatric registrar arranged a dietitian to visit, and after lots of empathetic reassurance that my sense of guilt and hopelessness is understandable but untrue, I received a food plan. The plan includes three main meals and three snacks per day. Remarkably similar to my EDP plan two years ago – except now I eat normal size, not small. Apparently I got away with small sizes last time because of the lap band.

Filling out food menus for the next 24 hours dropped me into a near panic attack.

They gave me clonazepam. As I feel so confronted by the huge kitchen area and array of foods on offer, the nurse brought me lunch. Just before I remembered the homemade spinach and feta boreks delivered by a beautiful loving Serbian lady from church.

Vastly more delicious and nutritious than cheese sandwiches.

So I heated them up, grabbed an orange and went to my room. I reluctantly swallowed the hateful substances and had a big meltdown.

Eating food feels like failure and tastes like sawdust – despite the love, care and nutrition put into the boreks.

Control is being stripped away and there’s nothing left to disguise the feelings of hurt, anxiety, rejection, abandonment, shame and guilt that flood through me all day long. I struggled through ACT and acceptance group then curled up in bed for three hours with my bunny and a miniature Bluetooth speaker nestled against my ear playing “Tightrope” on repeat. I cried for half an hour then slept solidly for two hours.

I fell. It feels like nobody wants to catch me. Mick nursed me back to a standing position and got me into a psychiatric facility. He sends love every day and picks up all the things I can’t do. It may be incongruous but I’m simultaneously loved and alone. Desperately alone and isolated with nobody to talk to about the chaos inside my body and my head. Many friends are still angry and distant. I understand – but it’s still hard to deal with.

The absent-minded professor who provided the second opinion on my diagnosis explained it perfectly. With bipolar we have an engine that runs 24/7. It never turns off. Burnt out and exhausted? Still going. Need rest and recuperation? Still going. My sleep study showed my brain is in hyperarousal 24/7. It never switches off. And that’s exactly what it feels like. My burned out motor tires my soul, eventually ceasing to work no matter how hard I push. It’s inconvenient for others. But it’s not a choice for me.

I’ve been practising my newly acquired skills to reach out to God and after days of begging for the things I want – reconnection with loved ones, my brain back, the ability to sleep – turns out he’s sending me the things I need. Rest, rest and more rest. I keep hearing the word in my head every time I’m guilty about not completing this task or that. Rest I hear. I tried resting today. And I feel better for it.. And woke up not crying.

I can’t know what tomorrow will bring. I’m blessed in so many ways and my gratitudes and affirmations decorate the headboard above my bed. I’m safe and cared for and in many ways, distant from the pandemic that is terrorizing everyday lives.

I’m practicing coming to terms with the things I’ve lost, and discovering the things I’ve gained. Most particularly, continued love and support from people who barely know me.

This too shall pass

All things do. One day I will no longer spend my mornings gazing out the window at a huge tree, hoping to see a bird or a bunny. I will become more productive and find purpose. But my job for now is to heal myself. Not patch myself up as I’ve done in the past, but fully heal in mind body and spirit. It won’t be a quick fix and it won’t be an easy fix but as someone once said,

The path through hell is to keep walking.