My last meeting with Dr T before discharge occurred on Friday evening. We didn’t get into anything too heavy thankfully, as that’s not something I’d want to get into the night before leaving. I was asked whether my mother had discussed with me the intended plan of her keeping my medications and confiscating any I had stocked in my room. “Yes,” I said begrudgingly. She seemed satisfied with that.
“I’m sorry you didn’t find this admission very helpful,” Dr T said. I said nothing in response. She then went on to say that there are other options, and other places to go. I gazed at her questioningly. “There are two other private hospitals in [city where I live], P Clinic and The M Centre. I don’t admit to either of those places so you’d have to find another psychiatrist who would admit you. They both have websites which you can look at,” she informed me. I nodded. “I’ve visited my friend in P Clinic before,” I told her. She nodded. “Yes, so you don’t have to feel you’re stuck to this place and it’s the only place you can go. There are two other places.” I looked at her a little incredulously. “Hopefully you won’t need another inpatient admission,” she said. Dr T further continued, and one of the things she told me was, “Basically I don’t believe in forcing someone to do what doesn’t work for them. It’s not a battle. Otherwise what’s the point? It’s not about who’s right and who’s wrong.”
Dr T is away from this week and I (or rather, my mother) was given the number of a colleague of her’s, Dr S, in case a crisis arises. I’ve seen this guy around the clinic, and gosh is he one stern looking and intimidating guy. Note to self: do not get into a crisis. I was asked about my follow-up appointment with R, whether it is this week that she returns from holidays. “Yes,” I confirmed.
Saturday morning I was discharged after twenty-three nights on a hospital bed, two of them in the ED.
Upon arrival at home, my mother asked for medications I have stored, as per Dr T’s instructions. I handed over a box of antihistamines. “What about paracetamol, do you have that?” my mother enquired. I did, and that was given to her too. Because I totally can’t just nip off to the shops to get a box of paracetamol or more for a few dollars myself. I really don’t see the point in this. My desvenlafaxine and temazepam is now being kept in the kitchen cupboard along with all the other medications in the house. It’s not as though I can’t walk a few metres into the kitchen while my parents are asleep and chuck down all the pills I can find down my throat. So how is this supposed to prevent me from overdosing? The only purposes I can find in this is to a) make it obvious to my parents I’ve OD’d if there’s a whole heap of pills missing, in which if I took a substantial amount of, would be plenty obvious anyway, or b) humiliate me enough with this new arrangement so that I don’t OD again. Which may just work considering how mortifying it is to have my medication doled out to me each morning and how unpleasant it is having that daily reminder I am an overdose risk. I’d hate to imagine what other new scheme Dr T could come up with
when if I overdose once more. Then again, it could also serve as the motivator to ensure that the next and last time I overdose it really IS the last time I overdose.