Twelve days now I’ve been here at H Clinic. I just feel drained. A couple of days ago I couldn’t handle the urge to self harm anymore. I managed to break off the blade of a sharpener. Made a cut on my arm. It’s not that deep, but deeper than the other cuts I’ve done on my arm in the past. Stupid stupid me. What happened to my resolve to never do it on such an obvious place as my arm?
Yesterday I was tempted to self discharge. Found it difficult to cope with being here in the clinic. This feeling was predominantly set off by a comment made by another patient in group.
I shake my leg repetitively when anxious. It’s just something I do to try to reduce that tension I’m feeling. Being in group isn’t the easiest at the best of times, and the fact that I was meeting with the Uni’s disability counsellor later in the day didn’t help my anxiety at all. And so, while in group, the woman sitting next to me made the comment to the entire room that she doesn’t like people shaking their legs. She even went so far as to use her folder to hold up to her face to shield me from her vision at one point. Another woman then put it out to the group that this is a mental health clinic and you do see a lot of [leg shaking] here. I was almost in tears and ready to leave the room right then. But I stayed until the end and as soon as group ended I bolted from the room and bawled.
I already have anxiety and social anxiety so having that comment made didn’t help at all. It served to make me insecure about what others and especially her think about me and apprehensive about attending groups.
I was dismayed to find the girl coming in whom I would next be sharing a room with has an eating disorder. I’ve spoken to her and she’s lovely, but two people with eating issues sharing a room? Really?! I walked out of the bathroom last night to hear her and the nurse talking about eating and purging. Couldn’t handle it so I walked out. I walk into the room again, I find her in the bathroom and I’m suspicious she’s been purging. Come today, and this time it’s me who’s throwing up the contents of my stomach down the toilet bowl. While my eating issues now are not nearly as bad as they used to be, I still do occasionally find myself purging what I’ve eaten. Which has happened three times in the twelve days I’ve been in hospital. So I don’t think it’s very good for either of us to be sharing the room, despite my not being on the ED program to seek treatment for it unlike her.
This morning I was still feeling fragile and found myself getting a bit emotional in art therapy. The afternoon was an improvement, as a friend came to visit, we went for a stroll and sat down to smoothies at a cafe.
Dr T came for a quick round today in the middle of my 5:30pm dinner and says she will be in to see me again tomorrow. My Pristiq has been increased to 100mg as of two days ago. Meanwhile I’m still unsure as to when I’ll be discharged. Fourteen days does seem rather long to have not slept in my own bed and eaten my mother’s home cooked meals. Hospital food has really lost its appeal to me.