It is early June 2015. I am almost 34. I have written my note to my husband (which I still have in my crisis keepsake box) and I am leaving my usual acute ward, en route to a city ward. There is someone driving and a nurse passenger escorting me. There are two people in case I try to escape. I am sat in the back of the car, manually locked in. I study the new building that will be my temporary home. The nurses are evidently expecting me as I arrive and give me a warm welcome as though I am a welcome guest in their locked in double bolted accomodation complex. For access to the garden (which has no grass and playground soft bounce surfacing all around, I require one to one supervision. Quite what they expect me to do out there if left unattended I’m not really sure, but I guess other guests have tried dangerous things with risk to health/life, so I follow the nurse out obediently to survey my new prison. The nurse chats to me as though I am giving off the vibes that I want to chat, when in reality I want nothing less than to chat to a psychiatric nurse who I know will feed everything I say straight back to the duty psychiatrist. She asks me why I’m there and why I transferred and how exactly I’m feeling. She is jolly in a way most incongruent with the vibe I’m feeling at that moment in time.

Nobody wants psychiatric hospitalisation. But people who write suicide notes with suicide plans tend to end up in places like this, along with the rest of the forgotton and suffering hidden mentally ill underbelly of society. 

It’s always a informal game I’ve played when I’ve been in there…who is the sanest. It’s similar to ‘who wants to be a millionaire’, except the questions are easier and there is no money changing hands.

Anyone who hasn’t compared themselves to the other co-habitants in the psych ward is either not human, or lying. 

I looked at them. I looked at me. Who was worse off? I don’t know really. In first glances the bipolar disorder patients in their manic episodes seemed happier than their opposing pole depressed counterparts. But were they? The patients suffering psychosis seemed very entrenched in their delusional belief systems and they tried to convert me to their belief systems during the bizarrest conversations I’ve ever had. Their type of poorly was not my type of poorly. But we were all poorly so I suppose making comparisons was fairly nonsensicle. It didn’t stop me though. 

I made my observations and comparisons because I was searching to find someone who was just like me and who felt like me, and over three seperate admissions I never ever did. I always felt my crazy was not their crazy. I was acutely suicidal and in a state of dysregulated emotional chaos, but I was not manic or psychotic. I was also not completely catatonic and shut down and regressed like the other class of patients. Those were the patients that did the classic stereotyped mentally unwell patient behaviours such as shuffling, staring and dribbling mouthfuls of their dinner down their laps.

I didn’t throw things. I didn’t swear and shout. I didn’t bother anyone else on the ward or try and talk to them about why I was there or how I was feeling. I imploded mainly silently, apart from the crying outbursts where I’d summon up the attention of a nurse and ask them to hold me while I crumpled up and shook all over. “I’m having a flashback. Help me”. I’d say. And they dropped their admin and helped. The suicidal conversations I had in the hospital were my most desperate conversations ever. The crying outbursts while I breathlessly hyperventilate my way through full and frank descriptions of how much I wanted to die were my worst moments, not only of my ward admissions, but of my life.

I’m thinking of this tonight, in my French paradise holiday. I’m thinking of when I hid under the covers with a toothbrush charger cable wrapped tightly round my neck. I’m thinking of the time I tried to squeeze my body through the upstairs window because I was so desperate to jump.  I’m thinking of the drowning attempt, the two overdoses, the knife blade running along on my throat when the CPN came. I’m thinking of the blade I managed to smuggle into my luggage, and how I tried to climb on top of the wardrobe in the hope I could dangle to my death off.

That is where me head is at.

And this is my suicide song that chills me everytime I hear it and takes me right back to that ward.

This is all me. Damaged. Broken. Thriving. Coping. Struggling. Plain sailing. Drowning. Everything mixed up into one mixed up person who gets tired of the pain but never gives up hope for her future. 


I don’t know why I had to write this tonight, but I felt the need, so I did. 


8 thoughts on “DOUBLE-BOLTED

  1. Liz says:

    These memories show how far you have come. It shows to those who don’t know you, just how tough it had been for you and how much you had to fight to stay here. You are a fighter. x

    Liked by 1 person

  2. summerSHINES says:

    You have always been so caring and supportive Liz. I know you understand and I appreciate what you’ve said so much. It doesn’t feel long ago that I was in this state. It is like a parallel universe that I stepped into and one that I can never forget. I’m a fighter but I don’t always feel strong if that makes sense. X

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Liz says:

    Your welcome and yes it does make sense.

    Having my own kind of trauma helps me to partly understand, but I am glad to hear that I have been supportive because sometimes when I left comments on your earlier, really difficult TR type posts, I wondered whether I came across right, even though you had thanked me for my comment, because of not really being in the same situation as you. So hence me saying earlier in this comment partly understanding.
    Your posts you share have shown have shown the raw. What happened and how it hurt you. Your posts when reading, I could feel the pain, even if I have not experienced what you have.
    I guess, but do correct me if I am wrong here, that you take each day as it comes, rather than plan too far ahead, because that is how I kind of go about my day. Only times I have thought ahead when planning that holiday or day trip.
    My mind sometimes does wonder though, like it has done today, by thinking how I would like my life to be and wonder if I will get there. (I am feeling low today.) But it seems an impossible and I feel stuck. I try to get out of the habit of wishing how I would like my life to be, because sometimes it can get me down or frustrated.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. summerSHINES says:

    I relate a lot Liz. I was feeling similar yesterday but living day to day hour by hour suits me best. I’m sorry you feel low. I feel better today. My moods are unpredictable. I imagine people do feel a bit paranoid when they comment on my blog as I am self confessed sensitive but you have always helped me and are one of my most loyal friends. I’d miss you if you stopped writing 😊

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Liz says:

    I just came across your blog post not long back after I commented and realised you had a low day too, while on holiday. Glad you are having a better today.
    I am back to blogging in July. The first post back sharing the latest will be on the 8th, with plenty of posts to come after. But the day before there will be a re-post of a post I aired much earlier, because I edited it slightly after noticing I spelt something wrong. This was spelling the topic in question wrong. (Blush.)
    I will also be revealing in one of my later posts after being back for a bit, titled “Depression sucks,” which will reveal how I had a low moment on a weekend holiday I had recently. It took me my surprise, because I wasn’t expecting it to be honest when I was enjoying myself. x

    Liked by 1 person

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