Cancelled

I’m free. No healthcare appointment for three weeks. By chance my next appointment with my psychiatrist is in three weeks, not the usual two. I cancelled the appointment I had with my GP today, and I’ve seen all my other specialists recently.

I’m just done. I’m so emotionally exhausted from talking about symptoms, treatments, response to treatments, managing medication side effects and withdrawals. Mostly the talking though.

I’m mostly housebound. I manage to leave the house for appointments, and that’s about it. I see family when there’s time for me to spend the night there and properly rest. I see friends most when they can visit me. Just getting to and from medical appointments all over Melbourne exhausts me.

I don’t drive because a) I don’t have a license b) I can’t afford to buy, or run a car and c) I wouldn’t be safe to drive a  car the majority of the time. That means relying on public transport. It’s pretty good in Melbourne. I can get to most places without too much trouble, but it does take a lot of energy. I’ve applied for funding for either a mobility scooter or power chair, but whether or not that happens is another matter.

I just need a break. Physically I need to rest and regain some energy. Emotionally I need a break from the near constant health talk. All of the healthcare appointments have meant talking to, and seeing friends even less. So the majority of the interactions I’ve had with people have been with healthcare providers about different aspects of my health.

I’m done. Just done. 100% done.

Promises

I promised my GP that I wouldn’t cancel my appointment this week. That I’d come even if I were feeling terrible.

The promise was made as a safety plan of sorts. A couple of weeks ago I overdosed the night before my appointment with her, then used the app to cancel my appointment. I told her. I was honest.

So now I’m to show up this week without fail. There’s also the silent, un-discussed expectation that I won’t self-harm in any way. No cutting, no overdosing or misusing medication.

I’m holding on. Barely.

The eating disorder is screaming at me. ‘Don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t think, don’t feel’. The same negative mantra it’s screamed for half my life. It is getting the better of me. The eating disorder plans feel safe and familiar. I’m falling into the trap of thinking that if I just follow the rules well enough that everything will be okay.

I know following any kind of ED rules is the quickest way to end up in the local emergency department. Dehydration in combination with my medical conditions is a recipe for disaster.

I don’t see a way out right now though. Going with the eating disorder seems safe and comforting. At least it doesn’t involve binge eating and piling on even more weight. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last nine months. Binge eating so often that I’ve depleted all of my savings. I’m broke from this damn eating disorder. At least restricting is cheap. Plus I’ll lose weight. Winning all round, right?

I know I’m making poor choices. It sounds utterly ridiculous, even writing it all out. This is where I’m at though. Completely emotionally exhausted, overwhelmed, struggling, losing any remaining hope.

Trying to Tread Water

I haven’t written a proper post for close to a year.

That’s how long depression has been kicking my butt. Not constantly. There have been light, happy, joyful moments and days sparsely sprinkled amongst the doom. The doom, however, heavily outweighs any lightness and joy.

Tweaking my antidepressant no longer helps. I suffer horrid side effects when I increase the dose. My psychiatrist is hesitant to change medications, but it’s something I’ll be pushing for soon.

Along with the unrelenting depression has come almost all the unhelpful behaviours you could think of. Aside from alcohol or illicit drug use. I rarely drink, and have never used drugs. I have enough going on physically and mentally without adding unknown substances to the mix!

Self-harm. Multiple overdoses. Binge eating. Not eating. Not drinking water.

The same behaviours over, and over in moments of ‘I can’t do this anymore’.

I had an inpatient psych admission a couple of months ago. It was helpful, and I was discharged in a much better space. However… within a month I’d overdosed and self-harmed.

I’m supposed to be journaling when I feel anxious or otherwise not okay. Journaling instead of leaping into unhelpful behaviours. I did. Once. That stirred up something inside. Flashbacks started, and small, scared chatter began inside.

I shut that shit down and dove headfirst, straight into an unhelpful behaviour.

Damn it. Not unhelpful. Self-harm, overdoses, eating disorder behaviours. They all help in some way, otherwise I wouldn’t be using them. They are helpful, but in a very short-term way, and they have unhelpful consequences. They don’t help me longterm.

I feel like I’m drowning. I’m trying to keep my head above water, but I’m struggling to do that. I keep going under, gulping water instead of air, only to rise again, cough up all the water, and start breathing…. before going under.

I don’t know how to fix this, and I don’t know what would help.

The Stigma Of Treatment

All the important people in my life know I struggle with my mental health. That’s old news. I’m not even overly anxious about sharing some of my struggles with the right people at the right time.

On the other hand sharing what treatment I’m receiving for my mental health is so much more anxiety provoking and worrisome.

I’m on three psychotropic drugs, and there’s plenty of judgement and stigma from people about that. I need these medications to function, if anyone has a problem with that, they can get lost.

I’m seeing a therapist weekly. At this point in time the therapist is a psychiatrist. In the past they’ve been psychologists, clinical psychologists, and counsellors. Therapy is a really good way to help me manage my mental health. Again, if people have a problem with that, they can get lost.

Then there’s the inpatient psychiatric admissions. Five in the last two years. Most of them for about three weeks. Not all in times of crisis, but of great stress, and with multiple crappy coping strategies being used.

I’m heading for my seventh admission with the same doctor at the same hospital. I trust my doctor, and I trust the nursing staff. I know the admission will be helpful, they always are, but I’m scared to tell anyone.

I worry so much more about what people might think about me being in a psychiatric hospital, than being on medication, or in therapy.

Is it really that bad that I need to be in hospital?
Yes. Doing the same amount of work in therapy outpatient is impossible. Plus I’m stuck, again. DID chaos, and multiple shit storms brewing beneath the surface. That doesn’t even cover the issues I’ve had with mood (both hypomania and depression in the last month). It is that bad.

Can’t I just get over it? Isn’t therapy enough? Can’t they give you medication?
I’m doing the therapy, and taking the meds. I’m still struggling. As for getting over it? Get lost.

I know hospital is a safe place to crash land. I can be a mess, be emotional, struggle in any kind of way and it’s okay. I don’t have to keep it together. I don’t have to keep smiling. Staff are kind and supportive. I have time and space to unleash the chaos, work through it, and put myself back together again.

I’ve still only told a few people. I’m so fearful of their reaction to, and judgement of inpatient treatment that I stay silent.

I think the stigma associated with psychiatric or psychological treatment can often be so much worse than the stigma associated with a diagnosis.

It’s okay to not be okay, and it’s even more okay to get whatever help you need to be okay again.