Looking at today’s date, I realise it’s been one month since I overdosed and was subsequently admitted to the psych ward. I am overcome with a mix of emotions. Regret that things have not really changed since my admission. Glad that I’m physically well. Mournful that it came to that. A sense of accomplishment that I’m still here, trying to survive. I don’t know what I feel and in many ways it’s a lot easier to just cut than to deal with these emotions.
A month has passed, and in terms of getting help, things have not moved forward. The hospital Self Harm and Crisis Counselling Service never did contact me, which is a shame given that they offer free counselling in the months after discharge. The DBT coordinator has yet to phone, after that call from the hospital with news of receipt of the referral, I really thought it gave signal to a fast and efficient intake. But it seems not, the hospital/DBT staff are handling this in accordance with how I’m usually handled by professionals. Neither have I made an appointment with one of the two clinical psychologists Dr T gave me the number of, but that stems from my own cowardice.
Less than a week ago I found myself once again sobbing with the pain of it all, feeling hopeless and out of control and wanting to overdose. I almost dialled the number I was given, the psychiatric triage of my local public hospital. A few things stopped me. The anxiety of making the call for one. The knowledge that if I did call, what could they do anyway? Also factored in, I am flying to Indonesia in a couple of days to bring my grandmother here to Australia for a visit and it would be a little bit selfish to ruin everyone’s plans. Thus, no matter how awful I felt I wouldn’t really overdose right before my trip overseas.
Thankfully, my mood has improved since then. There have been times where I have wanted to be back on the ward. But for now, I am glad to be curled up with a Jodi Picoult novel in the comfort of my own bed, instead of a psych ward with the air of loneliness and tears.