I haven’t wrote in a while. It’s the usual, what do I actually want to share scenario.
I have good news any way. I have been taken off my section 3 and discharged from the unit. I am back tomorrow for an appointment with their inreach team but after that I will never be back on the ward, just the outpatient clinic.
The time I was on a section 2 was horrendous. I was doing things to myself, and it appeared like I was getting worse, both for me and the staff. I started getting more leave in an attempt to improve things, however things became even worse. I went back one Monday about a month ago expecting discharge, and instead was placed onto a section 3. This marked change. I think I knew that because I had just been placed onto a section 3, and because the consultant was going away, there was no chance of me leaving for at least two weeks, so I sort of admitted defeat.
The day after being moved onto the section 3, I had my first proper chat with a nurse. I hated said nurse with a passion. She turned out to be the person who helped me most, the person I opened up to, and a big part of me being where I am now. I never expected that. The biggest thing I have gained from this admission is the ability to use my words to express myself.
There were a lot of awful times where I was unable to keep myself safe, or look after myself. I do not remember the first week. I did not eat, drink, or leave my bed. I do not remember any staff from this time except for one, despite the fact I was on constant 1:1 meaning I had to be with a staff member at all times who could see me, including if I wanted to shower or use the toilet.
After that week I made a slight improvement in terms of eating and being out of bed, but there continued to be a lot of risky behaviours. It is strange to look back and remember certain things. I remember looking in the mirror having lost weight, with marks all over my body, bloodshot eyes, a bruised head like you have never seen before, burst blood vessels all over my eyelids, cheeks and neck. I hadn’t been washing. I hadn’t had any change of clothes because I had none.
And now? Now I have gained weight. I am dressing, showering, wearing make-up, doing my hair. I look happy. Nurses have told me I have a sparkle in my eye. I smile a lot. I laugh. When I have been back to the ward lately I talk to the other patients, check on them, get them into the garden and have a kick around with them. I’ve spent a lot of time in that garden kicking a ball against a wall. I talk to staff, joke, laugh, smile. Cry with happiness, not anything else.
That is not to say the last few weeks have been problem free. I had my leave taken off me over bank holiday after going on a 30 minute walk and not returning, and needing a lot of support to keep myself safe and return. I lied to staff, to their faces, to get out that day because they were concerned, and I am shocked at the fact I did that. Losing my leave led to the second time I have become extremely distressed in there. I dived out the door when a member of staff was coming through, and had several nurses drag me back onto the ward. But the thing is, in there, each day is a chance to start again.
I got my 8 hours leave back last Tuesday, for each day. Then had overnight leave Saturday and Sunday, and was discharged today. I was given the option of a weeks leave, then discharge, but it felt best to have a clear cut discharge.
The night I was placed onto the section 2, I was distraught at going into hospital. It started with a phone call with my community team, led to an A&E visit escorted by the police from which I managed to escape from, and led to an incident that saw me being arrested on a 136. I’m not going to go into the incident, but when I was arrested the police officer was shaking, he was holding me down on the ground and he kept saying that everything was going to be ok; the worst was over.
I did not believe him. I was thinking that the worst had just begun. He saved my life, quite literally, and I was angry. Yet deep down a part of me wanted to feel his relief, and I think I was able to recognise that was something to hold onto. I can honestly say that very slowly, I am beginning to feel relieved. If the police officer had reacted a few seconds slower it is highly unlikely, if not definitely unlikely, that I would be alive right now. A few seconds where I stopped feeling fear and found myself at a total loss, could have ended my life and destroyed the people who care about me. He stopped me from doing that.
I was angry at being in hospital for probably 70% of my admission, and not happy about the situation for about 95%. But now I look back and I wouldn’t take it back. I am grateful that I was forced to stay in hospital when I wasn’t able to see that it was needed, and I am grateful to have been allowed out now that I am strong enough to support myself.
A lot has, and is, changing in my community support. I was discharged from the service I was under when admitted. I can return in February, but I doubt I will. I am now about to start private therapy with a low fee service and my NHS support is completely different, and has not really begun yet.
I will be seeing a new psychiatrist, who I have met once. She was amazing, I have to admit. I cried like no tomorrow, but it also felt good. I have been referred for the 3rd time to CMHT, and that will take some time. But what is the biggest thing right now is this new service. It is small; it has less than 10 staff members, and has only been open for 2 years. In those 2 years it has seen 120 patients which is nothing in comparison to most teams. It is funded by the police, and is a partnership between them, the NHS and a charity. They provide short-term intensive support, so for now I will be seeing them twice weekly at home. That will decrease pretty quickly, and after 6 to 8 weeks approximately, it will stop, and I will then be under the care of CMHT and the psychiatrist.
I am a bit anxious about it, and about the fact that right now it means all new people again. They attended my discharge ward round today and basically I will be seeing the nurses and the police officers. The police involvement panicked me a bit, but they are specialised in mental health, and will be much more like seeing a nurse, than a police officer. They don’t wear uniform and if you didn’t know they were police, you’d think they were nurses.
I am also moving this month, into a new houseshare. Said houseshare is with the loveliest live-in landlady ever, a beautiful home and a goregous chihuahua called Tilly. I was honestly terrified of post-discharge due to living and money and work, but I honestly feel like things are falling together so perfectly that it is almost unbelievable.
I know that difficult times are likely to come, although right now I can’t imagine it. I know that things won’t always be easy, but I also feel like a brand new person.
I never thought I’d go onto an adult acute ward. I never thought I would be sectioned. I never thought I would have both those things happen, and end up concluding that while I would never want to go through it again, I would not take it back. But I wouldn’t. I feel fresh. I feel new. I feel happy.
I don’t feel afraid of being here tomorrow.
I honestly could not speak higher of the professionals who have worked with me.
I honestly could not be prouder of myself if I tried.
I have a heap of regrets with university, work, and many of the things that have happened over the last 2-3 months. I have a heap of things I would do differently. I could sit here and list them all…if I wanted to. But I don’t. I don’t care. It was all worth it. Things fell apart, and then they came back together, stronger than ever.
That’s all that really counts.
I screwed up. But maybe I need to stop saying it like that…I crumbled and everything became too much.
Last Monday I was sectioned. I was arrested under section 136 of the mental health act by the police (for anyone who does not know much, it is not a crime but for safety and a mental health assessment) and taken to a “place of safety”. At said place I was assessed by two psychiatrists and a social worker, put on a section 2 and admitted to an acute ward.
I am not sure I want to disclose what happened. I have not really spoken about it at all to anyone, nor how I feel about it now. I keep telling myself I should be glad that a police officer saved my life, but then I think that sounds ridiculously dramatic and it does; but then it is also true. If the police officer had reacted even just 5 seconds slower than he did, I would be dead right now and I want to be glad. I do. But right now I am just confused. I think wanting to be glad is a good place to start. When the incident happened the police knocked me to the ground; broke my nails, bruised my side and bum, ripped my coat and scratched my face. He was holding me, almost hugging me. He was shaking and he kept saying that we were safe and that it was all going to be ok, that the worst was over. I wanted him to get the hell off me and I tried to get away. But I also remember this little part of me that could see how relieved he was that he had made me safe, and I was jealous. Bad choice of words there, but I wanted to feel his relief. I was crying because I could not feel it. All the officers were relieved and happy, talking about it being a good outcome, and I was laid there on the floor wishing I felt the same – I take that as a sign that something in me wanted to be alive. Well, wanted to want to be alive, and when I remembered feeling this way on Friday, I realised I have to fight.
I only spent a week on the ward. It was a rubbish week. I have only been on an adult acute ward once and I acted fine, and “displayed no signs of mental illness” mostly because I was trying to get myself out, and I did within 3-4 days. This time I was not quite the same. I had to be medicated which I hated, because it feels like every time you get distressed and they cannot handle you, they just want to knock you out…I was restrained which has never happened before, I was attempting to escape, I was on 1:1 a lot, I had all of my stuff taken off me…given back, taken off me again.
But I am home. I came back home yesterday and I am home for a week, and if I keep how I am/improve, then I will be taken off the section next Monday and freeeeeee. And I am pretty proud of myself for picking myself up so quickly rather than ending up having a long admission. I cannot stand hospital and while I know most people can’t, I particularly can’t. I cannot handle feeling trapped or not getting space, or fresh air. I cannot manage to eat in hospital so I went 7 days without food. I get worked up and even my Mum knew that hospital was not the right place for me.
That is not to say it was the wrong place neither. What I did, what I nearly did…there was no other option. I could not go home. And yesterday afternoon I had an absolute meltdown. On my way home from the ward I went to see my mental health worker at uni, and I just lost it. She rang the ward and the consultant suggested going back, but I pushed through and I am still at home. I have cleaned, dealt with some physical health issues, I am eating again THANK THE LORD and I am engaging with home visits even though I tried to refuse them. I know if I refuse them I will be recalled aka back in hospital, but that is not why I am engaging. I am engaging because I want to, and because this is an opportunity for me to learn how to communicate how I feel and get things out, rather than bottling things up and exploding.
Two weeks ago I was struggling, but I would never have predicted this to happen. It has been horrible, and at time, traumatic. I could still be on the ward right now, on 1:1 with none of my belongings, hurting myself, arguing, kicking off, not eating and destroying any chance of returning to outpatient therapy. But I have another two and a half months to show I can regain control and be “stable” (bloody hate that word), so I can do the therapy, and so that is my goal.
There are lots of issues at the moment, and things that contributed to this, and consequences of this last week that I have to deal with. But ultimately I know all things can be dealt with. While I am finding it difficult to say I am glad the police saved my life, I am glad I am still here to have the chance to engage in therapy and perhaps one day be glad.
I am focusing on looking after myself physically, reading some positive books and focusing on positive things. Having positive conversations with friends, generally talking to friends to be distracted, working on putting my feelings into words and just, helping myself. It started with eating; I knew I was not going to be able to pick myself up and do the things that would help me, if I was not eating. So yesterday after my meltdown I had my trusty rice krispies, and since then I have been eating “properly”, and it is just a case of one foot in front of another. I do truly hope I can go to my ward round on Monday, surprise them at how different I am (better!), get discharged and resume life, but for now we shall focus on today.
My head feels like it is going to explode.
I stopped having contact with my Dad in March 2016. I really believed I would never try to reconcile things, but I did. Wednesday night and yesterday. And it failed. And technically I’m the one walking away again, but the reality is I’ve been left no choice.
My Dad did things which honestly, I think I would want most people to walk away from their parent after. BUT in my head I was justifying his actions; he isn’t really a ‘bad’ person, he loves me, I need him, I don’t want to hurt him, he only did what he did because of the situation at the time…he needed help. And I was aware that I sounded like a deluded victim, like a victim who doesn’t realise they are a victim…but I was adamant that I wasn’t. That this situation is different to all other situations. That my Dad is different.
Turns out I was being a bit deluded. I was making up excuses for him, as much as I protested to myself that I wasn’t. I even sat in front of the police a couple of months ago and said that to be honest if they wanted to use me in court, I’d be better off on the defense team. I said I would stand there and I would defend my Dad. When they used the words they use to describe my Dad’s actions and potential charges I shut down. I wanted to be sick. I was thinking “NO!!!! That isn’t what it was. My Dad is not these things.”
I was wrong.
It’s hard when a lot of people in life have the mentality that you should always love, honour, respect and never reject your parents. The whole ‘blood is thicker than water’ mentality. But actually I do honour, respect and love him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t walk away from him. And you know, I would forgive him. I tried this week. I gave him the chance. I didn’t even expect him to apologise or be brave enough to have a conversation with me about the mistakes he has made in my life. I said we can pretend it all never happened and just move on. I was being ridiculously generous, really putting myself out there, and he was getting away with murder…and did he take the opportunity? Did he seize it? Nope. He attacked me. He attacked me with the “maybe I hurt you, but think about all of the things I did for you.” and then he listed things, such as picking me up from school when I was suffering from severe migraines, and taking me to my prom.
YOU SHOULD HAVE WANTED TO DO THAT.
All of my childhood I never dared ask my Dad for anything for fear of what he would react like. The last big thing was moving to uni. Because no, my Dad was not happy and honoured to see his daughter move to uni, he was angry, cold, and passive aggressive because of the effort it required to pack my stuff in his van and drive for 90 minutes. He made me feel guilty so that I constantly apologised for weeks. He treated me horrendously.
The day my child moves to university I will be begging them to let me take them. I will be so over the moon to see them leaving home and starting their new life.
If you don’t want kids, if you are going to treat them like an inconvenience their whole lives, DON’T HAVE THEM.
Then he switched. This morning it was all “I’m sorry, I’m a bad Dad” and all of that jazz.
I’m not taking it. He has always had these random but regular pity parties where he feels guilty, but rather than apologising or doing something about it…he makes it all about him, and I end up feeling guilty and apologising to him. For years I have been apologising to him, and it’s sickening. It is sickening to me, that I took on the blame for his actions. That he twisted it in my head so that I felt like the one at fault.
One of the hardest parts of the things that happened with my Dad was that it was so up and down, hot and cold. He hurt us, then he loved us….you thought, “it won’t happen again”…and then it did. A billion times over a good decade.
I was a kid then and I couldn’t exactly pack my bags and leave. A 7 year old does not have that kind of choice. But a 24 year old does. You can think I am a bad person for walking away from a parent, but it’s one thing to forgive and forget the actions of your parent from years ago, but it’s another to forgive someone who is still hurting you albeit in different ways.
I am so, so tempted to let him back into my life. To let him continue hurting me because maybe that would be easier than having no Dad at all. But I also know that it will lead to me self-destructing, and when in 3 months time I am an absolute mess, I will only have myself to blame. Letting him back into my life would screw me up again, and that would ultimately be my choice and my fault – so yes I am walking away, but it feels like I have been pushed. Selfish? Yes. Yes it is. If you call self-preservation and survival selfish, I am selfish. If you call having to spend the rest of your life without the man who was your world as a child that you dreamt of walking you down the aisle and looking after your kids one day, the kids you are going to have to explain this loss to, and losing not just him but the whole of his family too, as selfish, then I am very selfish.
But constantly putting yourself last at the cost of your own happiness and life is not something to be proud of. It is self-destruction.
Pretty good quote from Disney there.
When I last posted on here I thought I was coming out of a blip, and then said blip continued. I 100% thought I could positive think myself out of the hole. I don’t really recall what happened but it worked very temporarily, perhaps a day, and then things became worse again. I ended up in hospital a couple of more times, but only overnight…and then slept a lot in the day time. I mean positive thinking is vital and I 100% believe that what we think, we become. That being said mental illness and being low is not exactly the same as being negative, and positive thinking can only do so much. I think when you are at rock bottom, it takes more than positivity to help you, but once you are beginning to feel a little better, positivity can really help.
Things are better now though! I went through a couple of days at the weekend where I was looking after myself better, but I felt incredibly low, which is the usual process after a blip. It’s like you are letting go of the ways you have been coping, so it’s relatively “normal” to feel a bit rubbish and it’s a lot like when you have been physically ill and it takes a few days to get your energy back, but here we are!
I can’t say I am entirely sure how things have turned around. On Friday I was in A&E from about 3am-7am…but I was determined to still go to work, but then I fell asleep. I was so angry with myself when I woke up. I woke up 15 minutes before I was due at the hospital for an appointment that I was planning to go to on my lunch break. I had to practically run to the hospital and I was not exactly wide awake. The clinic was running an hour late, and I basically slept in the waiting room for another hour and then saw them. They asked a lot of questions and were worried about me, so they wanted me assessed by the crisis team but I managed to avoid it. I walked home in a daze and really disappointed in myself. I think sometimes you get to the point where you are drained, tired, and sick of letting yourself down. I spoke to the mental health team I am under for a planned phone call and I attempted to act “fine”…but the plastic surgeons, police and the university mental health team had all contacted them within a day so the “I’m fine” routine didn’t work. When I got home I rested all afternoon/evening, and my pain levels were so high that even with prescription painkillers, I was struggling. It helped me to keep safe because the idea of more pain was, to be honest, intolerable.
I am still on extra meds, plus the pain killers and antibiotics. Apparently it’s harder to get antibiotics these days but I swear I’m given them so often! It can’t be healthy!
I’ve been to work, and the gym for the last 3 days. On Monday I saw my MA supervisor, and I’ve also been super challenging myself with food. At home especially. I had been eating the same things every day for all meals including my evening meal, and then having set rules about lunch at work that I won’t go into, but I’ve had different meals every evening, eaten foods I haven’t eaten in a long time (cheese, avocado, salmon, cous cous, houmous, crisps and more), and also eaten different things at work. Every time I start panicking about it and my head wants to go back to eating the same old things I actually get really angry with the thoughts and I feel like, and excuse the swearing, “f**k you, you don’t get to dictate my life any more” and I love it when I am able to have this attitude.
I actually feel like my recovery from my eating disorder has had two stages; stage one was forced treatment as a child, stage two was actively choosing to “recover” as an adult, and I feel like I am entering a third stage where I am no longer accepting what I previously have. I’ve not been “ill” in terms of my anorexia for a few years, but I have been making a deliberate effort to keep my weight at or just below the target weight range eating disorder services set for me, doing as much cardio as possible, eating at certain times, eating the same foods, avoiding a lot of foods and other similar things…and I feel like I am beginning to challenge that.
If I gain more weight, who cares?! I’d rather be happy. Just because my current weight is what I need to be to be regarded as “healthy”, doesn’t mean it is my bodies healthy weight. I mean BMI isn’t the most reliable of measures, everyone’s weight/BMI varies, and a minimally healthy weight doesn’t have to be the end goal. A BMI of 20 is healthy, but so is a BMI of 21-24. I choose a little extra weight, happiness and being able to eat dessert any day! More than that, I choose being mentally healthy over spending my life restricting what I eat, not eating things I enjoy and having to put so much energy into not gaining weight. There are far better things to be putting so much effort into, and some food is good for your body, some food is good for your soul!! A healthy body is important, but so is a healthy mind.
I am a big believer in lifestyle changes for anyone who has weight related issues, rather than dieting. I am a big believer in body acceptance – body positivity is great, but actually you don’t have to love your body all of the time, but you can accept it and not criticise every aspect of your appearance. I despise the money making diet industry. I despise the guilt that so many women (and men), feel over their bodies and what they eat. I despise body shaming of any description albeit fat shaming, or thin shaming, and I absolutely hate that some people feel they have to adhere to certain standards. I hate that we are bombarded with messages such as ‘fat is bad’, ‘low calorie = healthy’, and ‘no pain, no gain’ – and I want to practice what I preach!