The day came for me to be transferred to the hospital closer to my home, and I was sad to leave. Several times after that night that nurse, with her big brown eyes, had comforted me in my darkest hours, protected me from myself when my facilities to keep myself safe were weakened.
Trembling, I stepped into the ambulance, wondering, for the first time, what on earth would happen next. I fought the urge to bolt, knowing any attempt to escape was futile. My world had been shaken from top to toe and I had little comprehension of just how much more change could occur, and more importantly, how much more I could stand.
Arriving in my home town hospital, I watched a nurse search my belongings with military precision, removing safety pins and belt buckles, any potential aid to self destruction. When she turned her back I quickly plucked a drawing pin out of the notice board above my new bed. I wasn’t going to be left unaided.
I spent the remainder of that day crying and shaking, banging my head and wishing for death. I reread the suicide notes. I wrote endless pages of despair and inconsolable grief and guilt. As I was sat, banging my head, I felt rather than saw the woman approaching. She was visiting the little girl in the bed opposite to mine. I eyed her suspiciously, and then she began to talk. She understood, she said, her grandson had been in a similar position, she was a Samaritan she told me, she had heard my story a million times or more, and there was hope. People got through, made something of themselves. I could too. Touched by her kindness I had a few moments of calm, a lull in the storm, in the war by me, against me.
The miracle of someone, a stranger no less, caring about me and trying to ease my pain, made all the difference in the world. For a brief spell the sun shone brighter, a smile came easier, pain seemed further away. Unfortunately the calm was not to last…the old idiom ‘Things have to get worse before they get better’ had never been so true.
Last edited by Buttons. : 09-03-2009 at 04:42 PM.
'Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.'
['There is only one thing we say to death. Not today'.']
'We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.’ – Oscar Wilde
‘It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.’ Sydney Carter
The next day I was worse. Far worse. My mind was milling with colliding trains of thought, I lost touch with any aspect of reality, the only thing real was the pain in my head, and the hole in my heart. I refused food, in the absence of objects to harm myself with (a drawing pin would not suffice) the gnawing sensation of hunger was all I had to cling to. I cried through the visit with first my CAMHS worker, and then the consultant psychiatrist. I felt nothing when he announced he was putting me on a strong sedative and advised upping my antidepressants. Even the mention of a visit from someone from the adolescent psychiatric unit meant nothing to me. I had gone far passed caring.
After the meeting with the consultant I fled to the bathroom. Once in there I searched desperately for something, Anything to take me away, if only for a minute. I contemplated smashing the mirror, before realising it would be futile-I would be heard before I could do damage. I canvassed the room, running my hands along every likely service. Eventually I investigated the bathtub, there for children who were on a long stay, and too young to use a shower. Looking round the back I found a metal tab that was inscribed with the words ‘Do not remove.’ I removed it, snapped the piece of metal in two to create a sharp edge, and dug it deep into my arm until my eyes watered with pain.
I leaned back against the wall, a cooling, calming sensation overcoming me. Finally, finally I could think straight.
Last edited by Buttons. : 10-03-2009 at 07:21 PM.
'Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.'
['There is only one thing we say to death. Not today'.']
'We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.’ – Oscar Wilde
‘It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.’ Sydney Carter
The feeling didn’t last long. An older nurse with greying hair and a motherly nature noticed my changed demeanour and demanded to see my arms. Sighing as she viewed the torn skin, she bustled away and soon returned with bandages. After wrapping my arm carefully and warning me off removing the dressing and reopening the wound, she searched my possessions until she found the piece of metal, hidden in the denim dungarees of a teddy bear. I glared at her with a hate and fury that coursed through my veins like acid, eroding my usual conscientiousness and polite manner.
Minutes later, yet another figure appeared, this time holding out a small cup, with a miniscule blue pill in it. I swallowed it with the water offered without protesting. A heavy, drowsy comfort enveloped me, stealing my thoughts and mellowing my mind. I sank back on my bed, squeezed my wounded arm for one more shot of pain, then sank into slumber.
The next day held very little memories or consciousness for me. More of the blue pills rendered me sound asleep for most of the day, and only semi lucid for the rest. Three of my friends arrived as I was just coming round, and through my befuddled state I felt a rush of pleasure at the sight of their familiar faces, and a stab of regret as I perceived the pain etched there.
Amusing cards, a homemade collage, an ironic bunch of grapes which were devoured more by my visitors than myself later, I had to confess that I was too sleepy to concentrate on the visit any further, and we said our goodbyes. The last to leave touched my arm as she passed and said “I’m sorry I didn’t realise.”
Later, hours, minutes, days, I lost track in my drug induced stupor, my parents brought my dog to see me. In order to see her I had to leave the ward, and sedated as I was this was more of a challenge than anticipated. I remember clutching the arm of a CAMHS worker for support, and hating myself for my weakness at the same time. The barest recollections of the meeting with my parents and my dog remain in my memory, the rest, sadly, are forgotten.
The night that followed was a better one. I had come fully round since the sedatives, and was battling a nurse to the first finished at sudoku puzzles, when commotion at the end of the ward caught my attention. I peered round, and saw a teenager being led behind a curtain in a very unwell state, followed by, from what I could gather, her aunt. The aunt’s daughter, about ten, stood forlorn and distressed in the middle of the ward, seemingly unsure of what do with herself now that her mother and cousin had disappeared. She sat down heavily at a small table, and looked at her hands, blinking back tears.
Feeling a new sense of purpose and energy, I grabbed a deck of cards and a packet of Malteasers from my bedside table and approached. Within minutes she was telling me the details of her disturbed night, how her cousin was ill, and her own mother had had to come to the hospital with her, as the cousin’s family had yet to be contacted. How she was scared, and didn’t understand what was going on.
The girl’s mother reappeared briefly to reassure her daughter, and then disappeared again behind the curtain. I asked the girl if she knew any card games, and soon we were playing, her talking about anything and everything as we played, her hopes, her fears, her cousin, her mother, helping herself to Malteasers as we chatted. The next morning the girl’s mother thanked me, and I felt a warm glow banish my bleakness for a moment. Then, as they walked out of the door, job done, I felt my stomach sink, and the dead weight of depression and anxiety rest again on my shoulders.
'Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.'
['There is only one thing we say to death. Not today'.']
'We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.’ – Oscar Wilde
‘It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.’ Sydney Carter
this is so well written i feel like i'm watching this instead of just reading it (if that made any sense). I keep re-reading it because it's that good you have me fighting back tears in parts, and what you did for that girl, wow.
keep up the great writing I, along with many others i'm sure, can't wait for the next chapter.
We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken
The meeting with the head of the psychiatric unit occurred later that day. She sat and asked questions and wrote the responses as I trembled and avoided her eyes and tried my hardest to answer coherently, when my panic levels were rising so high it was a wonder I could stay still at all. From that meeting it was decided that I would receive an emergency admission to the Adolescent psychiatric unit in a town about an hour away. I would be leaving the following day.
Mind churning I packed up my belongings again, asking my mother to bring in other clothes and items I would need for when they collected me to make the transfer to the unit. When she returned, she had a surprise in her hand. I had asked her to post on a mental health support website to let them know why I wasn’t around but that I was alive and kicking and not to worry, never really expecting more than one or two replies from friends.
She returned with five pages worth of condolences, thoughts and prayers. Messages from people I didn’t even know telling of how I had written them supportive replies when they had been at their worst, girls who I only ever exchanged joking emails with telling how much those meant to them on a dark day, friends and acquaintances reeling, having thought I was such a strong, together person. A few of the replies told me to check my mobile phone and when I did there was text after text with messages of love, jokes and promises of care and support. I felt my heart swell, and my courage multiply. I was not alone. I was most certainly not alone.
Alongside this treasure was a parcel which was a jewel in itself. It was from a friend who was too far away to visit, but had sent pages of lyrics that meant something to both us, a teddy bear she could barely sleep without to keep me company, a green foam that could be manipulated and played with when stressed, and more.
Armed with these items, tangible proof of people’s love and belief in me and my ability to recover, I got into my dad’s car with only a twinge of fear. I could get better. I would get better.
'Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.'
['There is only one thing we say to death. Not today'.']
'We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.’ – Oscar Wilde
‘It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.’ Sydney Carter
quick note: from here on out names will be changed for people's privacy (including my own) and suchlike :)
The drive to the unit was a nerve wracking gut wrenching one. I jammed my headphones in my ears and blasted music into them, trying to drown out where I was headed, the connotations of crazy. We drove into the town where the unit was situated, and the piercing blue sky and greener than green scenery seemed to mock my malingering melancholy.
Spotting the sign and pulling into the wide driveway I looked around with vague interest. The building looked more like a very large house than a psychiatric unit, I had expected something colder, more clinical and hospitalised. There was a girl curled up on a bench by the door, inspecting me curiously with her eyes. I returned the favour, taking in her fiery eyes, thin wavy hair, and languid limbs. Heaving my small red case out of the boot my dad led the depressing procession of a family towards the front door. There was no answer at the knock, and the girl directed us to another door.
Ducking round the side, we were let in by a nurse with an electronic key attached to her belt. I felt my pride slip down a notch. This really was a nuthouse, we were Locked In. A familiar fear of being boxed in and caged slipped over me like a familiar coat and I felt myself begin to shake. Steadying myself against a wall I followed my parents up a winding staircase before reaching a thin reedy corridor. Sitting down we waited in awkward, uneasy silence until we were invited into a consultation room.
The next half an hour was a whirl of rules, regulations and a list of degrading measures that would be enforced ‘for my own safety’. The worst of these were the terrible words: One to one observations. For at least the first twenty four hours, and probably forty eight, a nurse would be within eye contact of me, in my room, around the building, even the bathroom, though they assured me, as if this was supposed to be a reassurance, the door of the bathroom would only have to be half way open. I felt physically sick as I listened, and a kindling rage rose inside my chest. You must keep your scars hidden at all times outside of your room or in the presence of other young people. Observation levels will be reviewed every twenty four hours. Your belongings will be searched for blades. If you self harm and refuse to hand in the implement, your room will be searched. More and more heavy phrases rained down onto me until I felt I would buckle under them.
Eventually my parents and I said our goodbyes, tearful ones on the part of my mother, and I was taken through another locked door onto the top floor. I was shown to 'my' room, and told that the nurse I had met in the consultation room would be on my first round of observation. I unpacked uneasily then waited as the nurse rifled through to check for blades and suchlike. The safety pins on one of my arm warmers were removed, but otherwise my belongings remained in tact, and in my possession. I was told any wires such as the link to my Ipod doc, my headphones and my phone charger would be kept in the office and only given to me under supervised use initially.
I carefully ignored the nurse sitting in my doorway, and curled up around a corner, trying to meld out of sight. She shifted the chair and I scowled at her, as she smiled sympathetically at me. Waves of panic were now crashing down on me, and my heart was beginning to race. I would not have a panic attack I would not have panic attack Oh God I’m trapped I’m trapped I’m trapped There’s no way out I’ll be trapped here forever…Without thinking of the consequences I bashed my head against the wall. The buzzing pain eased things a little but still not enough, so I banged again, and again. The nurse approached and tried to persuade me to stop, then called in a more senior member of staff, who stated that if I continued they would be forced to physically stop me. I managed to regain control to an extent, though I was shaking like a leaf and my lungs felt ready to explode with the pressure of hyperventilation.
By the time the changeover was made to another nurse for my observation, who introduced herself, then sat down, I had formulated a plan. I picked up a large book, and then rifled through my diary. Snapping a plastic memento I tucked the sharp pieces up my sleeve then continued the pretence of reading my book. Slowly and subtly I un tucked the plastic and scratched as hard as I could into the fleshy underside of my arm. Thin lines of blood welled and I let out a small, involuntary sigh. The nurse looked up. She smiled in a slightly too understanding way, left her seat and came to kneel beside me on the bed. “What have you done?” she asked. I said nothing and attempted to ignore her. I should have known it would be an unsuccessful attempt.
Minutes later she was cleaning the scratches and then knelt back. “I need you to give me what you used.” I turned my face away.
“Go away.”
“I can’t while I know you still have something to hurt yourself with. Until you give it up, I’ll have stay this close to you, so why not give it in? I’m sure you don’t want me annoying you for the rest of the afternoon.” I moaned inwardly. With a larger than average personal space I couldn’t stand someone being so close to me, breaking my barriers. With a glare I threw the plastic down on the bed. The nurse thanked me, but I turned away and put my Ipod headphones back in my ears, raising the volume of the music until it almost distorted. She seemed to understand and backed off to the chair again for the remainder of her observation time.
The next nurse made me feel faint with fear. He sat down and kept a respectful distance, but I felt my face drain of colour and my stomach twist. I had been unable to bear being with any man on a one to one basis ever since the disclosure…the room swam and faded as a cinematic level flashback drove it’s claws into my senses.
He was there, he was leaning over me, I could feel his breath on my face, his hands reached out for my breasts…the scene changed, we were in the kitchen, his face was troubled as well it might have been. “I’m sorry, I’m a bad uncle, a bad god father, you’ve got to understand…” A fresh trickle of memory swirled into being, his hands at my neck, a vague recollection of wondering if he would kill me, and whether I would care, his crotch pressed hard against the back of me… I put my hands to my head and closed my eyes, trying desperately to block it out…a man in my room, just an ordinary man in my…him. Him in my room. Reaching for me and I stepped back out of range. “Are you not my friend anymore?” A cup of tea, a pathetic conciliatory gesture “You won’t tell will you…they won’t take me alive you know…promise you’ll burn your diary, or give it to me…at least wait until after Christmas, don’t ruin the family’s Christmas…” I had ruined everything, I deserved everything I got…pulling the covers of my head, praying he wouldn’t come upstairs to say goodnight, wondering as tears stung my eyes what I had done to deserve this, or if it was even real “I know you think something happened but it didn’t…” But it was real. So sickeningly heart wrenchingly real.
Last edited by Buttons. : 11-03-2009 at 11:05 PM.
'Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.'
['There is only one thing we say to death. Not today'.']
'We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.’ – Oscar Wilde
‘It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.’ Sydney Carter
