TWIM Awards & the Conclusion of 2010

You may notice I have a shiny new thing on the sidebar of this blog. The TWIM Awards 2010 over at Mental Nurse found me to be awarded with the Best Young Person Blog. I am both honoured and much delighted. It means a lot that readers, many of whom write fantastic blogs themselves, would vote for me. Thank you very much. I’m also pleased to announce many on my blog roll have also picked up awards. Congrats to all the winners and runners up.

Today we find ourselves at the finish of 2010. I don’t know about you, but it has been one hell of a year for me. Entering 2010, I would’ve never expected it would be so turbulent. This year I’ve managed to; lose my place in my Uni course. Gain a place in another as I start OT next year. Get help again as a result of an ambulance arriving at my house after an overdose. Lose part of that help as I stop seeing my psychologist. Start medication for the first time. Stop medication. Start it again. End up at the Emergency Department after overdosing. Twice. Find myself in a psych ward for the first timeas a result. All in the space of a year.

Part of me didn’t even want to make it to 2011 at all. But ho hum, I’m still here.

I don’t want to keep failing, I want to pass, I want to do well in OT and I don’t want to get kicked out of a Uni course again. I don’t want to keep overdosing, and find myself in the ED over and over again. I need to get my act together for 2011.

Huh.

Easier said than done.

Last Day on the Psych Ward

The morning of day 3 in the psych ward, I still found myself confused as to when I’d actually be discharged. So were the nurses apparently. “Do you know if I’m going home today?” I asked my assigned nurse. “What did the doctor say?” she asked. I replied that he said I would be going home either yesterday afternoon or that morning. “Okay, how about after lunch then?” she suggested, and I agreed. It doesn’t seem like very good organisation when the nurses have no clue what the doctors say and when their patients are supposed to be discharged…

A bit later on, while I was in the TV room sitting with another patient- a 39 year old woman, the same nurse came to ask us what we needed, as we were both being discharged that day. The nurse then started telling me, “You’re still so young, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You don’t want to be in a place like this.” I looked ruefully at her. The patient I was with agreed- “You’re still so young!” The nurse then continued, “CBT is very effective. I know patients who did CBT and now we hardly see them here anymore.” I smiled disbelievingly and let her know that I have in fact tried CBT but the doctor was recommending I give DBT a go.

Late morning I attended the baking activity in the OT kitchen where we baked choc chip muffins. I was the only one who turned up, though an older woman appeared later- after the the muffins were already in the oven baking, conveniently enough! It irked me though when a couple of the staff members walked in and made me feel completely invisible- comments such as “You’re the only one here today, M?” directed to the older woman and “No one turned up today?” Last time I checked, I was still someone…

After lunch my parents came to pick me up. I was given back what had been confiscated- my antacids and badges, though ironically there were pins on the pin up board beside my bed, and handed a script for the Lexapro. The nurse advised me that the hospital psychiatrist would probably have sent off a referral for DBT to Dr T, my regular psychiatrist, and again repeated, “DBT is very effective!”

My parents drove me straight after to a community pharmacy to get my script filled. Unfortunately one of the occupational hazards of being a pharmacy student, or even an ex one, is that you may come across one of your fellow students. At first I saw M walking around in a uniform. Heart started pounding a bit faster. Then I saw C behind the counter collecting scripts. I panicked then and hid behind the shelves for a while. It’s bad enough having to get antidepressants dispensed from someone I used to study with, but a hospital script looks different to a normal one- a fact I hadn’t realised ’til then. They didn’t teach that to us in our lectures! Realizing then that I hadn’t much choice, I walked up to the counter and handed the script to him. We had a bit of idle chit-chat. He pointed out that I don’t have any repeats. “Yes, I’m seeing my doctor soon who will give me script,” I said. A while later I was called to the counter once more and he asked me to read the doctor’s instructions. “Take one in the morning and….supply every 14 days?” I recited, with a question mark at the end. Lexapro 10mg tablets come in boxes of 28 and pharmacies dispense by the box so it was an odd instruction to have. I was dispensed one box anyway- 28 days supply. Don’t know why the extra instruction was added… unless it’s to hinder me should I be tempted to overdose. Way to add to the embarrassment! “I’m happy you’re discharged,” C said as he handed me my pills. I gave a dry smile in return and walked away. Good to know ex fellow students now know I was hospitalized in a psych ward… *Cringe.*

So was the overall experience helpful? I think getting that bit of respite in that two and a half days on the psych ward did aid me in letting the dust settle post overdose and letting my emotions calm a bit. In the ED, during day 1 and the first half of day 2 I was not ready yet- I was still feeling miserable about it all, still sobbing, still dreading having to go home to face my parents and the real world. By the end of day 2 I was feeling slightly more at peace, had stopped crying and was ready to go home.

I’m also relieved that things treatment wise have moved forward slightly. I was contemplating medication again but was unwilling to tell Dr T so, this way I’m back on the Lexapro without having to bring it up with Dr T myself. I was also unsure about where the therapy side of things were going and now I’m apparently being referred for DBT. Though, that also depends on their efficiency- whether the referral has been sent or not, and whether Dr T approves.

At the same time, I’m terrified. DBT seems intense and is apparently very strict with lots of rules and boundaries. I’ve been told by a girl who’s starting it soon that they HAVE to call someone if they’re about to self harm, and if they do self harm, they’re excluded from the course for 24 hours.

There’s also the question of why I’m being offered DBT in the first place. I don’t, as far as I know, have a diagnosis of BPD. Just plain old vanilla depression. As much as I want a correct diagnosis, I’m afraid of being hit with the BPD one. Does it fit? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. But if I do have that label stuck on me, I’m afraid that if I turn up at the Emergency Department next time I’ll just be viewed and treated as an ‘attention seeking borderline.’ I’m afraid that if I say I’m suicidal or tempted to overdose I won’t be taken seriously. I want to ask Dr T next time I see her, “Am I being offered DBT because it’s been suggested I have BPD?” but I’m not sure I want to hear her answer if it is indeed “Yes.”

I next see Dr T on the 4th of January. I’m nervous about this appointment. In the month that I haven’t seen her, I’ve overdosed twice. Which is a big fail, even for me. I’m apprehensive about what she’ll say. And I’m extremely embarrassed that the reason I took one of the overdoses was because I thought she’d stop seeing me- why must I be so flippin’ needy?

Psych Ward Day 2

Upon my appearance for breakfast at the dining room on day 2, a woman introduced herself as my nurse for the morning and told me she had tablet for me. She handed me a tiny plastic cup with a little white pill in it, which I assumed to be the 10mg of escitalopram. The nurses watch you take your medication, so I didn’t want to scrutinize it too much, but I do like to see the packaging and to see it popped out of the blister pack. I swallowed the tablet anyway and put my faith in the nurses who had dispensed out my medication for me.

By the morning of day 2, I still felt miserable and had thoughts of going home and ending it all. It felt hopeless as always, knowing that I’d most likely just end up overdosing again, it’s just a question of sooner or later. I questioned how I was going to cope with life when every little situation prompts me to want an escape. I dreaded having to go home and face my family after my mishap, the initial meeting with them in the Emergency Department was bad enough.

At about mid morning, one of the OTs came into my room give me the group timetable. She explained that it can be unhelpful to ruminate and with my eyes rimmed with red and my face tear streaked, I could kind of see her point.

The view of the hall of the psych ward from my room

I was called to the nurses station where a social worker led me to an interview room. Because I’m still living with my parents, I didn’t really need any aid in that sense. I was referred onto another service run through the hospital social work department- the service for patients who present to the ED with thoughts of suicide or a suicide attempt.

Later in the day, another social worker from aforementioned service came to talk to me. She handed me a pamphlet and told me she’d give me a call tomorrow if I was indeed discharged that very same day, or another social worker in their office would get in touch if I was discharged later on. It’s now been three days since I left hospital and have not been the recipient of any phone calls- typical…

I attended the Christmas Crafts activity with the OT- I may be bah humbug and all this year, but I do enjoy doing some arts and crafts. Plus, hospital does get rather boring. Received a Christmas ornaments kit from the OT and made these decorations;

Christmas Crafts

Well, I started the angel in hospital, finished it off and made the wreath at home. Felt a bit like I was in primary school again…

My friend who had been in the same ward of the same hospital this time last year encouraged me to check out the art room. I did, and painted a picture, though I’m not very artistic.

Art Room

There were relaxation training groups run for half an hour every day, but because I’m not a fan of meditation or mindfulness at all, I didn’t attend.

When I was not in my room, I spent my day wandering the ward, or else for the most part, in the TV room.

The TV Room

The rear of the TV room

During the evening, I stopped being upset, but then got agitated- very agitated and frustrated. I strolled the ward and the courtyard a few times to try and walk it off- unfortunately the feeling didn’t leave. I don’t often get this way, but when I do, I find the need to a) throw something b) scream or yell in frustration or c) punch the wall in what’s an alternate way to self harm. I’m usually not an aggressive person, but in that particular instance, I found myself going back to my room to punch the wall a few times. Not hard, but enough to make some noise apparently. I’d forgotten there was still another patient in the room. “Was that you banging on the wall?” “Err…no,” I said awkwardly, and feigned ignorance.

After dinner I was feeling a bit calmer. The night shift nurse assigned to me happened to be the one who did my admission the night I arrived on the ward. She sought me out while I was in my room and said to me, “Oh you’re BtF, I didn’t know that. I did your admission, do you remember?” I confirmed that I did. I was once again led to an interview room where we spoke briefly. On my first meeting with her I found her to be quite unfriendly and intimidating, but that night I didn’t find her quite as bad as I initially thought. She asked me to come to her if I felt unsafe and I hesitantly agreed. I thought of the cuts already made earlier in the day and the blood stains on my bed sheet as a result. Hmm. A bit late for that…

Anyways, by now my accounts of the past few days are probably getting a bit tiresome. Only one more to go in the series…!

Psych Ward Day 1

Being wheeled over from the ED to the psych ward in the middle of the night meant the halls of the hospital were eerily dark and quiet. This did not help the slightest in easing the fear that I felt. Upon arrival at D block, an elderly nurse with a European accent came up and took me down the elevator. I was not prepared for a psychiatric admission, and only had on a hospital gown and in my possession the clothes I had worn in getting to the ED. “Is that all you have?” the nurse queried. I confirmed in the affirmative. I was told to sit down on the couch in front of the nurses station for a while. Most of the lights were off, the rest of the patients were in bed, and I was left to check out my surroundings where I noted the posters and pamphlets on the wall, the TV in the corner and the small Christmas tree with it’s flashing lights. A while later, the same nurse led me into an interview room where the admission papers were filled out. “History of self harm or suicide?” she asked. “…Yes,” I admitted. “History of violence or aggression?” I smirked a little. “No.” “History of absconding?” “Um…what’s that?” I asked. “Running away,” she stated. “No,” I replied. “Do you have any recent wounds?” she asked a little further along. I confirmed yes. “Show me,” she commanded. I obliged in lifting up the hospital gown to show her the cuts and scars on my thighs. “Do you have any sharps with you?” she asked. I thought of the razor blade in my bag and a second’s hesitation later I answered no. Eventually the papers were completed and she led me to my room.

My bed on the ward

There were four beds per room, each bed separated into cubicles by curtains. My sleep was unfortunately hindered by very loud snoring and as a consequence I only managed a couple of hours. I regretted declining the offer of temezapam earlier.

My
curtained cubicle- four in each room

In the morning, my assigned nurse came to show me to the dining room where I had my first meal at the hospital. A couple of the other patients introduced themselves to me. “I thought you were one of the staff!” one said.

Dining Room

Late morning, my name was called over the loudspeaker. “Patient BtF to the nurses station, patient BtF.” Still groggy from the nap I was taking, I made my way out of the room. I was intercepted halfway by two of the doctors who asked whether I was BtF. When it was established I was indeed the person they were looking for, I was led to an interview room where another psychiatrist was waiting.

Upon walking into the room I felt a bit threatened as meeting with one psychiatrist is nerve wracking enough, let alone three. The apparent head psychiatrist made me feel a bit more at ease though and tried to make light of it, which I thought was excellent. “I know it’s intimidating when there’s three of us and one of you, but we like to gang up on people, it makes us feel powerful,” he joked. He explained that it was so I wouldn’t have to repeat everything three times, as there are three doctors on each patient’s case. Only the male psychiatrist did all the talking, while the two other female doctors sat and took notes. There was the usual history taking, and I was inevitably asked what led to the overdose that brought me to the psych ward in the first place. I suggested that going off my medication could’ve contributed to it. And the feeling of hopelessness that yet another treatment didn’t work out. I said that I had been feeling this OD coming on for the week or two previously. I was asked what I OD’d on and what symptoms I experienced as a result. He warned me of the dangers of paracetamol overdose, of needing liver transplants. He’s not the only one to have done so. Unfortunately I fail to take heed of their warnings…

I was then asked when was my last overdose prior to this one. “About three weeks ago…” I admitted. Told him it was done on impulse. “Usually when someone does something like this on impulse, there’s something that triggers the impulse. So what made you do it?” I took a few moments to gather my thoughts and swallow my shame. I explained with embarrassment that it was because my psychiatrist had told me she doesn’t see many patients who don’t take medication which I took to mean she wouldn’t see me as a patient anymore. “So it’s a feeling of being abandoned and rejected?” he asked. “Yes,” I admitted. “How are your relationships?” he asked. Ahh. I could see where he was going with this then. BPD, BPD! Told him I had yet to have any, as no one’s been interested in me. He advised me, “If a doctor is going to stop seeing you, they’re likely to tell you, “I’m going to stop seeing you.”. And if you’re not sure, you can always ask, “Does that mean you’re going to stop seeing me?”" Right. I smiled sheepishly at him. The result is that I’m back on the Lexapro, though 10mg instead of the previous 20mg, and he wants to refer me to do DBT, which will also have to be discussed with my regular psychiatrist. ”What you have is very treatable,” he told me. I looked at him disbelievingly. “You don’t have schizophrenia, you don’t have bipolar and you don’t have unilateral recurrent depression.” I pondered the last one. Unilateral = not bipolar. Recurrent = reoccurring. Right. So I don’t have that apparently, though this depression does feel a bit bloody recurrent. He told me that I could go home the next afternoon or the morning after that. “I don’t think spending days and days in hospital is going to do you any good. It’s a cushy place, you’re away from outside stresses, but at the same time it’s not a nice place to be. So I think it allows the dust to settle while you’re here, but if you think that being in hospital is making things 100% worse, you can tell the nurses that you want to go home.”

While in the TV room during the afternoon, one of the patients asked, “Are you okay?” “Yes,” I tried to say. The tears that were starting to form probably gave me away though. ”No you’re not, I can tell,” she said. “You need to talk. It helps. Not to me, but to the nurses.” Which is well and all, except the nurses were no where to be found. And I’m not one to be able to go seek someone out.

Attended the Emergency Planning group in the afternoon with the social worker and two other patients. Wrote down identifiers of when we’re starting to get stressed, ‘positive affirmations,’ who we can contact…. Unfortunately this was not helpful at all as writing it down is much easier than putting it into action when you are in a crisis.

Later in the afternoon my parents and younger brother came to visit me on the ward. Mum brought my clothes and toiletries, so I was able to freshen up in this lovely shower…

The shower in our room

And while we’re at it, here’s the toilet…

Toilet in our room

The night shift nurse came to talk to me at the beginning of the shift. With her job done she left me alone after that. She told me about the need to have a plan in place in the event of a crisis. She gave me an example with her, in case Avian flu were ever to hit Australia. She told me of a kit she has at home, with paper towels, gloves and she’d like to have face masks in it too. Ooooookay then. A little over the top perhaps? But what do I know, I’m just a mental… And so concluded my first day in the psych ward. Day 2 coming up next…

Emergency Department

I could feel this one coming on. I’d been depressed and suicidal for the week or two before now. Tuesday just happened to be the day because I didn’t have work and neither parent would be home. I want to point out though, that I did try and reach out for help first. I called a helpline, told her I was tempted to overdose again. Which, given the anxiety I have speaking on phones, is a pretty big thing for me. Unfortunately I was not rewarded for my efforts, as the woman on the other end told me to ‘distract yourself by phoning or going out with friends.’ Right. Because when I’m that close to overdosing again trying to ‘distract myself’ in that way really works.

So I took the pills. Paracetamol, escitalopram, promethazine, loratidine… Took myself to the Emergency Department a couple of hours later. By public transport. Absolute nightmare. Threw up on the bus, it was lucky I had a plastic bag on me and no one witnessed it. Threw up some more in the public toilets of the train station, and sat on the toilet floors in agonizing nausea and dizziness. Extremely drowsy, most probably from the promethazine, and was this close to falling asleep. Vision started blurring- the train and the people around me were clouded with purple dots. Could barely summon the energy to climb the stairs upon disembarking the train, and once I did, had to sit down on the floor against a pole and close my eyes for a few minutes. Can’t even begin to imagine what people thought- that I must’ve been drunk or on drugs most likely.

Two buses and a train later, I arrived at the hospital. Presented to the triage nurse, who happened to be the one to do the ECG on me last time I was there. Told her what I had taken, was then led round the side and put on a trolley bed. By then I knew the drill. Sadly. Was wheeled in the ED ward. Nurse at the computer looked at my notes. Said, ‘I take it you’re not feeling the best today then?’ Hmm. No. Established with her that I had been in the ED before, but not in the psych ward. She asked to take a couple of badges I had on my bag away from me. I handed them over. Was then taken into a cubicle where I was given a hospital gown to wear. My bag was searched, quite thoroughly too, and they took away my earphones and antacids. Despite this, the nurse still missed the razor blade I had hiding in the pocket of my wallet…

The view from my hospital bed in the ED

The doctor came to check me out a while later and determined how to treat me. One of the things she said was “I think you’re always going to be a bit of a risk to yourself,” which is not a good prognosis at the age of nineteen…

I was given a 12 lead ECG. It was found to be abnormal, with QT prolongation which meant I was given an ECG every two hours for the next twelve hours and kept on a constant heart monitor. The heart monitor found me to have tachycardia the entire time, and my heart rate sat on about 100 beats per minute. The blood test found my liver to be fine, and surprisingly I was not put on a NAC drip like last time, despite me having taken more paracetamol this time.

Cannula in my arm. Ouch.

I could hear the person next to me having a conversation with the mental health nurse and psychiatric doctor. The nurse asked the man, ‘Have you ever had a psychiatric admission?’ The guy says indignantly, ‘I’m not mental!’ Ah, oh dear.  I gave a small chuckle to myself.

Because I still had my blade on me, I was still able to cut in my cubicle, and did so. It’s lucky no one noticed…

That same psychiatric doctor later on came to talk to me. I found him to be THE most incompetent, rude, insensitive psychiatrist and health professional I had ever met. The doctors and nurses I came across in the ED were all professional in their treatment of me, and it makes me so angry that it’s the supposed mental health professional who treats me in this way. “Why you do something like that?!” he questioned in an accusatory tone. “I’m just unhappy,” I said, not wanting to talk to him. I was starting to display a bit of attitude, not something I usually do, but he was really irritating me. He couldn’t get his head around why I OD’d if I hadn’t had an argument with someone. “So who’s fault is it?” he asked me. “No one’s,” I replied stubbornly. “No one’s?” he asked. “It’s yours! You took the pills so now you’re here, when you could instead be at home doing something that you like!” Upon telling him that the psychiatrist sent me home from the ED last time, he again asked “Why?!”  in that accusatory tone, as if it was my fault I was cleared from a psychiatric point of view. “Are you crazy?” he asked me. I  stared at him wearily for a few seconds. “No,” I said defiantly. “Crazy people, they see things and hear things that aren’t there. So are you crazy?” he asked me. “No,” I replied. “Do you see things?” “No,” I said again. What sort of idiot psychiatrist calls people who experience psychosis ‘crazy’? He asked me where my parents were and indicated he thought it strange they weren’t there. “They’re coming later.” I told him. At this point, my parents appeared at my bed. They were introduced and my mother asked him what I had taken. “She took a cocktail of drugs,” he said, and prompted me to name them. Reluctantly, I reported to my parents I took paracetamol and Lexapro. He declared in a condescending manner, “We don’t expect you to do something like this, you’re a nineteen year old girl!” and my parents agreed with him. He led my parents away to discuss me, and my parents came back to tell me he wanted to admit me to a ‘mental hospital’ for a few days. At that point I didn’t really believe it. Ya know, coz I’m unhospitalizable and all that jazz. Plus, I reasoned that a psychiatric doctor with that level of incompetence couldn’t possibly have any real authority, can he?

My heart was slowly starting to correct itself, and I was moved to the Observation Ward. You know it’s not a good sign when you recognise a few of the staff in the ED. It’s even worse when one of the staff recognise you. The orderly moving my bed asked, “You were here last time, yes?’ “Err…yes,” I admitted.

At about 10pm the consultant psychiatrist, a different one this time (thank goodness) and the registrar came to give me a second assessment. What fun. And so came the history taking, and the discussion of the overdose and why I did it. I told them this was the forth overdose this year, the year before that it occurred twice, and the year before that once. “You can really guarantee your own safety can you?” they asked. “No…” I admitted with regret. At one point the issue of my working as a pharmacy assistant came up. “It’s interesting that you work at a pharmacy with all that access to drugs given that you overdose,” the registrar said, and indicated he wasn’t pleased at the idea. I admitted then that I had stolen drugs from the pharmacy to OD on in the past. Twice. He suggested looking for another job. I replied that it feels easier to stay in the same job. “It’s convenient for you. I mean, that you can take the drugs,” he replied, though that wasn’t what I meant. “I haven’t done it in a while,” I protested. Last ED admission I took OTC dugs. Last OD I took my own medication. This time I took both my medication and OTC drugs. But not stolen ones. I was warned again that the police could get involved and I will not be able to get a job as an OT in the future if that is the case. The options presented to me at this point were for me to go home, go to a private psychiatric hospital or to a public psych ward. Unfortunately private was a no go as I don’t have private health insurance.

The consultant and registrar went off for a while to discuss my case. The consultant psychiatrist then came back and reported “We’ve made the executive decision to admit you,” the reasons being the increased frequency and intensity of my overdoses. I was told I’d be moved to the psych ward of the general hospital I was in that very night, the justification being that I’ll be seen quicker when they do the ward rounds, and when I’m to be discharged, it occurs quicker then in the ED. I freaked out then- it was really happening and I really was going to a psych ward this time.

At close to midnight, a wheelchair was brought for me, and I was wheeled down to the ward, all the while shaking with fear in my chair.

And so ends my day in the ED. Next in the series: Day 1 in the psych ward…

Admitted to the Psych Ward

Forth overdose in a year was one too many it seems. I’ve crossed some invisible line between being sent home from the ED, and being admitted to the psych ward.

I will write proper blog posts detailing what occurred, but for now, while I only have an iPhone, this will have to suffice. For the time being, the ward is where I’ll be found.

Considering medication again

I’m afraid I may have been wrong to go off medication. I’m afraid I may have been wrong to write off medication completely.  A couple of comments in this post echoed what was already going through my mind. Because yes, I have only tried one medication and perhaps there is one out there at the right dosage that would benefit me?

I’ve been feeling worse than I have in months. Does this coincide with my cessation of the Lexapro? Maybe yes, maybe no. I’ve been considering whether it would be worth starting medication again. Obviously medication doesn’t fix everything. I’m still in doubt as to whether antidepressants do have an effect on depression. But perhaps I was a little more stable while on them?

But what if I’m considering going back on medication for all the wrong reasons? There is a part of me that still doubts I have depression or a mental illness at all. Being prescribed antidepressants is in a way validates and provides evidence that I do. Wanting to be medicated just to prove to myself and others that I have this illness is not a legitimate reason.

There’s also the age old, ‘I’ll be fine, I don’t need medication! I’m going to spontaneously get happy and healthy and better and all that jazz without the aid of meds, or any help at all!’ Wishful thinking, avoidance or optimisim..?

I’m not keen on experiencing those dreaded adverse effects upon starting medication. Then again, a week’s worth of side effects is worth months of greater stability, assuming medication works. Especially when I’m due to recommence studies at University next year, I really cannot afford to fail again. These past couple of weeks have seen me laying in bed with the feelings of hopelessness pressing down on me days I’ve not been forced to get up for work, being unable to concentrate on more than a few of pages of novels before giving up and retreating to my bed or to the computer, crying, and generally just feeling emotionally flat. Then again, it could just be a reaction to feeling let down and screwed over by ex-psychologist #2 and psychiatrist…

One thing I’m certain is an effect of the Lexapro though is the ability, or lack of, to cry. Crying almost everyday while off the medication isn’t really favourable. But neither is being emotionless and numb while on it. Crying for me can be a cathartic release and being on the Lexapro hinders that ability.

So would I discuss this with Dr T? I’m not quite sure. There’s my damned pride getting in the way, the ‘Oh dammit, you as the ‘professional’ was right after all’. Furthermore, I don’t want it to be seen that my wanting to go back on medication is some desperate attempt at halting her discharge of me as a patient.

If I don’t restart medication with Dr T, I’m considering going to a GP and asking for medication that way. I’m generalizing I know, but after speaking with three of them, I’ve come to the conclusion that most psychiatrists are twats. GPs, well, not a big fan of them either, and generally they’re not too clued up about mental illnesses. Finding one with experience in treating mental illness can pose a challenge. Still, they’re more likely to just give me the medication and send me off on my merry way while they go fix up the patients presenting with illnesses for which they were trained in.

So say I’m prescribed the medication again. Then what? I know what I’m like. There’s a chance I won’t take it due to being afraid of having to take long term medication again. There’s the temptation to stockpile medications in case things get too much, because I know not taking the medication won’t prompt those unpleasant withdrawal effects in going cold turkey if I wasn’t even taking it in the first place.  

Ack, why must decisions regarding treatment be so difficult? Though, I’m all too aware it is ME who makes things difficult for myself. If only I was completely compliant with treatment; took all medication prescribed, asked for help when I’ve needed it, opened up, talked, then I wouldn’t be dealing with this right now. Unfortunately, that’s not how I operate.

Physical punishment is NOT okay

My aunt (my father’s sister) quoted an old saying today. She stated she is a believer in ‘spare the rod, spoil the child.’  Interestingly enough, her father (ie. my grandfather) has the view of not using physical force in disciplining your child because of what he endured from his own father. As a consequence he has only laid his hands on her once while she was growing up. I wonder what my aunt is saying about herself then…? But that aside, I strongly oppose her opinion on this matter.

As a child, my father would smack me if, in his eyes, I did something to warrant punishment. It wouldn’t have been classified as physical abuse. Nonetheless, it affacted me in a detrimental way and it shames me to admit it. It’s not real trauma, I’ve never experienced the horrors of sexual abuse. Many children are smacked while growing up, and they’re none the worse for it. Perhaps part of the reason it affected me in such a way, I was already a quiet, timid, sensitive child. My father and his domineering ways hardly gave berth for a child of my nature to grow.

My family is hardly the hug and touch type. Which is fine I suppose, it’s most likely attributed to our Asian culture. Simultaneously, it’s also difficult to see my peers so accepting of hugs and the such, while I flinch away from touch because the only time I did receive the touch of my parents was when my father hit me.

Besides the physical punishment side of it all; words, shouting, yelling also hurt. Much of the time I lived in anxiety and fear that my father would get angry at me. Heck, even now when I think too deeply of this, my chest feels tight, it gets a bit more difficult to breathe and my throat constricts. The anticipation and the anxiety that came with it was sometimes worse than the actual blow up. Hearing my father talk in low voices to my mother, I would tense up with foreboding that my father was talking about yet another action or lack of that put me in the wrong.

When I’m asked by the ‘professionals’ when I started self harming, I will usually report at aged twelve because I found the transition from primary school to high school difficult. This is not entirely true. The first time I self harmed occured before this. The memory has stayed with me ’til now. My father was shouting at me for one thing or another that irked him and I was, of course, upset. Perhaps he had also shouted at me not to cry, I’m not sure about that instance, but certainly it happened on occasion. Being frustrated, angry, upset, and not knowing how to express these emotions, I dug my fingernails into the flesh of my arm. I remember the pain distracted me from my emotions and from my father’s anger. I remember my mum noticing, and telling me not to because ‘only crazy people do that.’ So I didn’t. Until I started cutting at aged twelve.

Thankfully as I’ve grown older, the situation has improved. He’s stopped hitting me as I’ve grown older. He doesn’t get unreasonably angry at me as much as he did in the past. Most days we don’t exchange words unless it’s necessary. “Does that bother you?” I’ve been asked by an ex-psychologist and psychiatrist. “Not really,” I reply. Because there’s an alternative that’s much worse.

A couple of months ago, my grandparents and aunties (ie. my father’s parents and two sisters) called me over to my grandparents house to stage some sort of an ‘intervention’ whereby they gave me a pep talk and offered me options regarding where I live. The reason being I’m eighteen (I’m nineteen now, but was eighteen in October) so my father can’t do anything to stop me. They told me that if the situation with my father is very bad, I could always move in with one of them. They say that they feel as though they’ve let me down by not standing up for me more when I was younger. Ten years ago I would’ve jumped at the chance. These days the situation at home is not so bad and, I suppose, bearable.

Anyway, this was a rather long post that could’ve simply been summed up by the title. This is my experience and this is why I am so against physical punishment. Perhaps it is simply due to my sensitive and timid nature, but it has left me mental scars. As much as I’d loathe to give someone who caused me anguish in the past so much power over me, I do wonder whether it has in part contributed to my mentalness. But part of me is telling myself that’s silly, being abused causes trauma, simply having a hard father does not.

Either way, if I do have children in the future, I hope this remains with me as a reminder of why I will spare the rod, because not doing so can also spoil the child- mentally.

Psychiatrist Appt- Should I Go?

I am still at this point contemplating whether or not I want to cancel my next scheduled appointment with Dr T. The practice is closed from 20 December 2010 ’til 4 January 2011 which means I have to make a decision in the next couple of days. There are a few things I’d like to spend my money on. A cancellation fee for less than 24 hours notice is not one of them. She’s fit me in right at the open of their new year, a lunchtime appointment for 4th of January at 12 noon.  I would feel slightly guilty cancelling when she’s squeezed me in like that, but cynical me is thinking, ‘Err, she’s only fit you in because why wouldn’t you forego your lunch break for an extra three hundred over dollars in your pocket?!’

I do have reasons for and against seeing her again.

When I’ve had abominable meetings with professionals, my distress will at times prompt me to act on impulse. Especially when it is gathered they intend on ceasing treatment with me or indeed take action in doing so. These past couple of weeks have been turbulent to say the least. The first blow came when it was implied Dr T may stop seeing me, leading me to take an overdose of Lexapro. Come two weeks later, terminating therapy with my psychologist has hit me harder than I anticipated, despite me being the one to initiate the end. These past few days have seen me fighting strong urges to overdose again, with death crowding my mind. I’m afraid going and leaving Dr T’s office for the last time may bring about a repeat episode. By not going, I would be protecting myself from the hurt of leaving with the knowledge that yet another mental health professional was unable to do anything for me.

Another reason I’m loathe to seeing her again is because I do not appreciate the one thing giving me hope for the future being stomped upon. Honest or not, being told I’m likely to struggle in Occupational Therapy next year when it is the one good thing I have going in my life, does not give me much incentive to see another year through.

So what are the reasons for seeing her then?

She could refer me to a clinical psychologist, a different one this time. With any luck, it may be third time lucky. With my luck, doubtful, but who knows…but it would save me the hassle of starting from absolute scratch in finding help for myself. If I do attend my appointment, I’ve decided I will accept her offer of a referral to a psychologist should she offer, but I’m not going to push it. If she doesn’t think I need support, then that’s just fine, she’s not the first person to have thought along those lines…

I am wondering though, does therapy really help? I’m not asking because I feel let down, I’m not asking because I’m hurt, I am genuinely doubting therapy will aid me to recovery. CBT? Tried that. Mindfulness? Tried that. Psychotherapy? Tried that. What’s next? The way I see it, I’m always going to be chronically suicidal. I’m always going to have trouble dealing with strong emotions. I’m always going to avoid, avoid, avoid my problems. Can therapy really fix all that, and more? Do people actually recover by participating in therapy? The concept seems foreign to me at the moment.

My last appointment, Dr T asked me what I wanted from treatment. My answer? “I don’t know.” I don’t know what I want, which doesn’t give much to work on in terms of what I want to achieve from treatment. Maybe I’m just not ready to work on my issues? But then again, when will I ever be?

Perhaps I should employ Differently’s method – it does seem far lass complicated to make a decision that way.

SBS Self Harm Documentary- The Silent Epidemic

I’ve been receiving a number of search terms with variations on ‘self harm documentary,’ especally today where the number totalled ten. This coincides with SBS’s screening of The Silent Epidemic this evening, a documentary created in Australia on the very topic of self harm. So for those of you who want to ‘watch self harm documentry online’ as you had typed into Google, now you can! Well, if you live in Australia anyway. Link to the video here.

I was in tears watching parts of it. I could relate to some of what the young people featured on the show said so well.

It is said that people who self harm are nine times more likely to attempt suicide. What the young people had to say about this;

“Wanting to feel better and wanting everything to go away, pretty much what it comes down to.”

“Someone can do it for so long and not get the help they needed so they think that it’s game over. I want to do it now. I’ve screamed out, I’ve bled and no one cares. I musn’t be wanted.”

The second comment hit a raw nerve with me. Oh how much I craved for someone to notice and care, the five years I spent struggling alone with it during high school. At the same time I was terrified at the possibility of my secret being found out.

It’s interesting that as an experiment with one girl who struggles with self harm, she undertakes an eight week program in meditation/mindfulness. The professionals’ hypothesis: it can change your brain so that the side which contributes to happiness (left? right? *shrugs*) becomes more active and you therefore find it easier to tackle self harm. At the end of it, an EEG proves their hypothesis right, and she does report being happier. Hmm… While I’m glad for her that mindfulness has been useful, I doubt it’s for everyone. One of the comments she makes while fighting the want to self harm really resounded with me though:

“Sometimes you just go there. No matter how long you’ve been fighting it. There are times where…you’re just really not in the mood to fight. You’re just tired.”

How many times I’ve felt the exact same way…

It’s hard to reflect back on my own self harm and realise I’m fast approaching the seventh year of utilizing it as a way to cope.