My stay in hospital was less then helpful and more, quite traumatising. The reason for admitting me to the psychiatric ward was because the night before I had cut myself pretty badly and they thought it would be a good idea to lock me up.
It was new years eve when it all starting to turn. I had been cutting before that but this time was different. This time was a little more serious. I cut myself on my hand, right between my knuckles and split open a vein. I think I then went into some kind of shock, because I cleaned up, bandaged my hand, got dressed, went to a new years party and got horribly drunk. I also thought it would be a good idea to go swimming with my freshly cut hand, which meant the next day it was infected.
When I decided to go to the emergency room the next day I was completely numb. I remember sitting there reading a book as if nothing was wrong. I could have easily been sitting in my room or a cafe casually watching the world go by. Nine hours passed but it seemed like minutes until they called me in. It was then things really began to crumble. I told them that I had done it myself to which the doctor told me I was stupid. He was pissed off and then made me wait by myself for over an hour while I silently cried, not wanting to disturb anyone.
For some reason whenever you turn up to a doctor after intentionally hurting yourself they ask bluntly if you are doing it simply to get some attention. I guess that's because some people are. But this was not the case for me. Cutting was my secret shame. I didn't want anyone knowing about it. It was my thing, mine, my own, it was what I curled up with at night and I didn't want anyone else being a part of it. When I had to finally tell people, it was as if my whole world fell before me. I was naked in front of a crowd and had no one to hide.
After my patch up in ER, they sent me down to the Psych ward. I remember zoning out not really taking in what was happening to me. I kept a journal the whole time I was there and wrote in it constantly. I'll be posting more of that soon so you can get a better idea of what it's like being locked up.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Journal Entry
1st Night 1/1/06
What is this freakhouse that I’m in? Am I really here? The lights are so bright it’s almost blinding. Yet the hallway remains dark and daunting, like a nasty street at night from a 50’s detective movie.
This place is so strange. It can’t be possible that I’m supposed to belong here. I can hear someone’s heavy breathing; to close, so slow. It feels as if they’re hiding in the bed next to me. How did this person manage to hide so well? How can I learn his secret? This place feels like the setting for a poorly made German horror film. Doors are always open. I can see various bodies lying uncomfortably as I walk the dim corridor. Even in sleep they look as if they’re in pain; agony and grief so deep that even the cover of darkness cannot conceal.
Continued...
That year I became so numb I couldn't see what was happening. I had heard of depression, I knew all the facts and what to look out for but I didn't realise It was happening to me. I couldn't understand why I would cry, deep sobs where you would struggle to breathe for hours on end. I didn't understand why I was so tired and slept 18 hour days. I was afriad to go outside, or even out of my room. I was terrified and I had no idea what was wrong with me.
It was then that I started cutting. I can't tell you how the idea came into my head but something in me told me this is what I needed to do. It became my drug of choice. The relief, (as if high) that I felt was like nothing I have ever experienced. I became addicted. Cutting was my best friend and my worst enemy all at the same time.
Months after I started this secret ritual I ended up in the psychiatric ward of a public hospital. It was then that my story and my struggle for survival really began...
It was then that I started cutting. I can't tell you how the idea came into my head but something in me told me this is what I needed to do. It became my drug of choice. The relief, (as if high) that I felt was like nothing I have ever experienced. I became addicted. Cutting was my best friend and my worst enemy all at the same time.
Months after I started this secret ritual I ended up in the psychiatric ward of a public hospital. It was then that my story and my struggle for survival really began...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Chapter 2
When I was a little girl, I remember thinking that I was different. I never really fit in with friends because I was weird and had a weird family. But it was more than that. It was as if there as something fundementally wrong with me and something in me knew that I wasn't the same as everyone else. It wasn't until years later, that I realised I was right.
My story is probably not that different to anybody else...which is exactly my point really. What took place in my life so far is happening to people everywhere, but for some reason we don't talk about it. It's easier that way and so very comfortable.
I grew up in pretty nice neighbourhood. We had a nice house, (shared with three older brothers), a pool and money to spare. I had some good friends who lived on the same street and each day we found new interesting ways to get up to mischief. Although these times were innocent and fun, when I think back I remember a sense of deep sadness and I wonder where it came from...
My parents divorced when I was four. I don't remember much about it and what I do remember I can't trust it to be true. A couple of years later my mother remarried, quite frankly to a horrible man. I remember the anger that seemed to surround him and seep from his skin. He was terrifying. There always seemed to be shouting in the house. Between my mum and her husband, my brothers with each other, me with whoever....it didn't matter. After awhile you forget why you're arguing, but you keep doing it because you're used to it. Life was pretty hectic all round. Two of my brothers had severe ADD and struggled greatly because of it. It was a source of much tension in our house. It would not be until much later in my adult life that I would learn my mother was also suffering from depression and would struggle with it for many years.
At some point during this time I decided that adults were not to be trusted, that no one in fact could be trusted and I would have to learn to rely on myself. I think I was not the only one who decided this. If there was not shouting in my house, there was silence. Thoughts and emotions were not shared in our house, so we all learnt to keep them to ourselves. It was a house of secrets.
My childhood was not miserable 100% of the time. I cannot lay blame to anyone for how my life turned out. My parents did the best job they could and there were many times of joy. But somewhere deep in the back of my mind, there was always an uncomfortable sadness and a feeling that I was wrong.
My mother, to my great relief divorced her husband when I was about 13. Just before high school. It was soon after she informed us we would be moving. I was devestated. I knew it wasn't that big of a deal but for some reason it felt like the end of the world. We moved almost every year since then, thus forming my constant feeling of displacement. I was lost.
High school was pretty dismal. Not because anything traumatic happened, but just because it was high school. I moved through groups of friends like sand through a river. I was popular, then wasn't. I was the best friend of the most popular girl, the one who dated young and was therefore cool, the advice giver, the loner, the christian geek, teacher's pet and finally I was no body.
Year 12 was possibly the worst year. My mother had hit her lowest point and one day declared she needed to move away and be with her family. This was about 3hours south of my school. So I moved out of home and lived with one of the teachers from my school and her family, who I barely knew. It was a disaster. I became numb. It wasn't until after 4 months after my mother left that I cried. There was just nothing left.
****
My story is probably not that different to anybody else...which is exactly my point really. What took place in my life so far is happening to people everywhere, but for some reason we don't talk about it. It's easier that way and so very comfortable.
I grew up in pretty nice neighbourhood. We had a nice house, (shared with three older brothers), a pool and money to spare. I had some good friends who lived on the same street and each day we found new interesting ways to get up to mischief. Although these times were innocent and fun, when I think back I remember a sense of deep sadness and I wonder where it came from...
My parents divorced when I was four. I don't remember much about it and what I do remember I can't trust it to be true. A couple of years later my mother remarried, quite frankly to a horrible man. I remember the anger that seemed to surround him and seep from his skin. He was terrifying. There always seemed to be shouting in the house. Between my mum and her husband, my brothers with each other, me with whoever....it didn't matter. After awhile you forget why you're arguing, but you keep doing it because you're used to it. Life was pretty hectic all round. Two of my brothers had severe ADD and struggled greatly because of it. It was a source of much tension in our house. It would not be until much later in my adult life that I would learn my mother was also suffering from depression and would struggle with it for many years.
At some point during this time I decided that adults were not to be trusted, that no one in fact could be trusted and I would have to learn to rely on myself. I think I was not the only one who decided this. If there was not shouting in my house, there was silence. Thoughts and emotions were not shared in our house, so we all learnt to keep them to ourselves. It was a house of secrets.
My childhood was not miserable 100% of the time. I cannot lay blame to anyone for how my life turned out. My parents did the best job they could and there were many times of joy. But somewhere deep in the back of my mind, there was always an uncomfortable sadness and a feeling that I was wrong.
My mother, to my great relief divorced her husband when I was about 13. Just before high school. It was soon after she informed us we would be moving. I was devestated. I knew it wasn't that big of a deal but for some reason it felt like the end of the world. We moved almost every year since then, thus forming my constant feeling of displacement. I was lost.
High school was pretty dismal. Not because anything traumatic happened, but just because it was high school. I moved through groups of friends like sand through a river. I was popular, then wasn't. I was the best friend of the most popular girl, the one who dated young and was therefore cool, the advice giver, the loner, the christian geek, teacher's pet and finally I was no body.
Year 12 was possibly the worst year. My mother had hit her lowest point and one day declared she needed to move away and be with her family. This was about 3hours south of my school. So I moved out of home and lived with one of the teachers from my school and her family, who I barely knew. It was a disaster. I became numb. It wasn't until after 4 months after my mother left that I cried. There was just nothing left.
****
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Chapter 1
Once upon a time in a faraway land...
Somehow I don't think that's going to work for this story. I wish I could lay out my life for you in a cleary explained linear fashion with a beginning, middle and end, but I can't. For one thing my life is far too fragmented for that, and for another it hasn't ended yet.
Most of what I'll write about from the past will be taken from my old journals and my own memory, which is very disjointed. Most of my journal entries aren't dated (due to my lack of organisational skills,) and some are months, even years apart.
So I'm afraid you get my mixed lolly bag version of my life. It's all in bits and pieces. Which is a bit like life I suppose. You pick up the pieces and try and get them to fit until you see the whole picture...
Somehow I don't think that's going to work for this story. I wish I could lay out my life for you in a cleary explained linear fashion with a beginning, middle and end, but I can't. For one thing my life is far too fragmented for that, and for another it hasn't ended yet.
Most of what I'll write about from the past will be taken from my old journals and my own memory, which is very disjointed. Most of my journal entries aren't dated (due to my lack of organisational skills,) and some are months, even years apart.
So I'm afraid you get my mixed lolly bag version of my life. It's all in bits and pieces. Which is a bit like life I suppose. You pick up the pieces and try and get them to fit until you see the whole picture...
Prologue
This is basically a blog about my life, my thoughts, things I've seen and what I've experienced. My hope is to share with you my story, my life really so that you might be encouraged or challenged. Please feel free to share this blog with your friends. I hope it stirs things up a bit.
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