Wow - didn't realise how long it has been since I last posted. Once Ski school started I have been thrown in at the deep end, told on day 2 that I needed to work more hours and an adhoc job in a shop that I have worked in on and off for a couple of years has become a daily pastime.
So, my review of 2011 (a bit late, I know):
January - drunk. relationship problems
February - dumped. Drank some more
March - breakdown Overdose of tablets and stay in hospital.
April - moved into own studio apartment. Holiday in England for 2 weeks. Drank lots
May - looked for work. Signed on at jobcentre
June - no work
July - no work
August - Started walking friend's dog when she returned to college. Finally felt a semblance of "home" in my new apartment.
September - all too much. Lots of doctor's appointments, psych appointments. Meds changed. Doc's wanted me to go into psychiatric clinic.
October - went back to UK for 3 weeks instead of Psychiatric clinic. Similar.
November - waited for snow
December - snow came, ski season started. Went from no work to 44 plus hours a week.
And then 2012. After a crappy Christmas (working so didn't even open my few presents until a couple of days later) and a lonely New Year (ended up drinking too much and sadly joining the tourist info girls for a drink outside in the rain) I then had my birthday to look forward to. Only before that, the dog which I had been walking unfortunately had to be put down. He was 2 years old nad had an incurable autoimmune disease. I still miss him (I am more of a cat person but this dog was ace) and cried lots.
The rest of January I was wrestling with the demon drink and knew I was drinking too much, every day as a routine. The 30th of January was the last time alcohol passed my lips. Wish me luck. My friend in Spain who has been dry for over 4 years has been a lot of support and very inspirational.
February so far has been too busy for me to think, let alone write anything. My mood has dropped - so far this year I have felt pretty manic and on top of the world. Now I feel like shit. I got Bronchitis and a Sinus infection last week and had 2 days off work, plus yesterday and today (not a popular decision with Ski School as it is the busy season i.e. time off only if you are dying) but I felt sooo grotty and am so exhausted that I couldn't get out of bed that it was a tough but necessary decision. I am not sure if this is the depression creeping in again.
Sometimes I think I might as well just go back to the UK now and forget going at the end of season. But I want to make sure everything is square here before I leave. All my wages go directly to the Social now and I send them my bills for them to pay. Luckily in January I earned 3500 chf (about 2000gbp) - sounds a lot hey, but you don't live in Switzerland.
Good news about my apartment though - my ex has decided to take it on as it is cheap and "our" cat lives here - he doesn't want him to move again. This is great as the catflap is fitted to a window which I would have had to get replaced. Plus it is warm (hence my ex has stayed over 5 nights out of the last 7 as he has no heating).
I don't know, all feels like such a muddle at the moment. I just want to get packed and get over to England but am disillusioned by the state of the UK, living in a town I hate and the need to earn money.
Showing posts with label Psychiatric Clinics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Psychiatric Clinics. Show all posts
Thursday, 16 February 2012
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Psychiatrist Appointment Review
So I saw my lovely Psych last Monday and to be honest I thought I couldn't be bothered to talk and have been feeling grrreeeeeaaaatttttt! But when I got there I suddenly found myself becoming very articulate, clear thinking and demanding answers to questions in a much more forthright manner than usual (drugs or....?)
The Cipralex started working pretty quickly after he prescribed it to me at the end of September (10mg/day) and he seemed pleased with that, as am I and I explained about my clear thinking, positive mood, feeling HAPPY when I walked my friend's dog in the forest the other day (totally wierd and unexpected experience as I don't think I've had a flash of that since 2008) and that in general I am now fine and not mad. So he's upped it to 20mg/day in the morning to top up the Venlafaxine (now down to 150mg) with the Seroquel as a top up when needed (still every night to get me to sleep although I've had one night since getting back from the UK I had a normal night's sleep without it - yeay!) and the stash of other old medications at the back of my drugs drawer that he doesn't know I still have - never know when they might come in handy heh heh.
So, then onto the ECT debate. Some of you have emailed me with some very sage advice which I am very grateful for. I agree that in CH the psychiatric profession seem quite....well....keen to pursue this option in cases such as mine but I am still researching, researching, researching. I explained to Dr I that at the moment there is no way I need it, but who knows what I will agree to when in the depths of despair and depression, so I would rather be informed as much as possible before that situation would arise and if necessary draw up a treatment agreement/non agreement stating what I would or would not consent to. I asked when they give the treatment i.e. when I am feeling great and do it anyway, or when I am feeling shit. He said they were able to guage how effective it was being if I started when I feel like shit. He went through how many treatments there would be and that usually when I started it would be as an inpatient for two weeks to monitor me and then be treated as an outpatient until the "required" number of treatments had occured and then.....get this.....once a month "maintenance treatment"! When did that enter the plan? So, after a bit more discussion about how my family felt and the conflicting views of friends, plus my indecisiveness still as I am still confused by it all, I agreed to visit the Private Psych clinic where I was incarcerated 4 years ago around this time of year, for an appointment to discuss further.
However, whatever I decide, it is unlikely any treatment of such will be carried out in Switzerland for me. I am planning on going back to the UK next April/May and start in Ski School in a couple of weeks and there is NO WAY I would be able to be admitted as an inpatient or attend outpatient treatments a couple of times a week over the winter AT ALL, unless I go a bit mad in the meantime (which is a possibility, who knows where my moods take me) in which case, as I mentioned earlier, I want to have a Crisis Treatment Plan in place that everyone understands what I have or haven't agreed to. I need to look up the Swiss law anyway on being "sectioned" as I would imagine they are probably a bit more strict over here given their love of law and order.
Watch this space people.....I will let you know how that appointment goes and they had better be prepared because I will be demanding answers.
The Cipralex started working pretty quickly after he prescribed it to me at the end of September (10mg/day) and he seemed pleased with that, as am I and I explained about my clear thinking, positive mood, feeling HAPPY when I walked my friend's dog in the forest the other day (totally wierd and unexpected experience as I don't think I've had a flash of that since 2008) and that in general I am now fine and not mad. So he's upped it to 20mg/day in the morning to top up the Venlafaxine (now down to 150mg) with the Seroquel as a top up when needed (still every night to get me to sleep although I've had one night since getting back from the UK I had a normal night's sleep without it - yeay!) and the stash of other old medications at the back of my drugs drawer that he doesn't know I still have - never know when they might come in handy heh heh.
So, then onto the ECT debate. Some of you have emailed me with some very sage advice which I am very grateful for. I agree that in CH the psychiatric profession seem quite....well....keen to pursue this option in cases such as mine but I am still researching, researching, researching. I explained to Dr I that at the moment there is no way I need it, but who knows what I will agree to when in the depths of despair and depression, so I would rather be informed as much as possible before that situation would arise and if necessary draw up a treatment agreement/non agreement stating what I would or would not consent to. I asked when they give the treatment i.e. when I am feeling great and do it anyway, or when I am feeling shit. He said they were able to guage how effective it was being if I started when I feel like shit. He went through how many treatments there would be and that usually when I started it would be as an inpatient for two weeks to monitor me and then be treated as an outpatient until the "required" number of treatments had occured and then.....get this.....once a month "maintenance treatment"! When did that enter the plan? So, after a bit more discussion about how my family felt and the conflicting views of friends, plus my indecisiveness still as I am still confused by it all, I agreed to visit the Private Psych clinic where I was incarcerated 4 years ago around this time of year, for an appointment to discuss further.
However, whatever I decide, it is unlikely any treatment of such will be carried out in Switzerland for me. I am planning on going back to the UK next April/May and start in Ski School in a couple of weeks and there is NO WAY I would be able to be admitted as an inpatient or attend outpatient treatments a couple of times a week over the winter AT ALL, unless I go a bit mad in the meantime (which is a possibility, who knows where my moods take me) in which case, as I mentioned earlier, I want to have a Crisis Treatment Plan in place that everyone understands what I have or haven't agreed to. I need to look up the Swiss law anyway on being "sectioned" as I would imagine they are probably a bit more strict over here given their love of law and order.
Watch this space people.....I will let you know how that appointment goes and they had better be prepared because I will be demanding answers.
Saturday, 1 October 2011
Treatment options following Psych appointment
So last Tuesday I had a Psychiatrist appointment, the last one being in July due to my health insurer no longer paying for my medical treatment.
Let me explain, I have been feeling REALLY bad - one of my GPs has been seeing me every two days to check I am still alive and to support me towards my psych appointment.
The kind of things that have been happening have included feeling suicidal, crying a lot, not sleeping (well that's been ongoing since April), heavy body feeling, no energy, feeling empty and imagining conversations have happened when they haven't, imagining experiencing things when I haven't, poor memory - I could go on but don't want to bore you.
Anyway, Dr I said that what I was experiencing was typical of deep depression and considering I have this, plus a mood disorder (daren't ask him which one), plus the stress of no job and the stress of a relationship split have all contributed to my current state of mind.
We went on to further discussion about treatment options, including another medication change (number 5 I think) and he told me not to worry, there are another 81 medications I can try (he has a sense of humour like mine). So he has reduced the Venlafaxine to 150mg/day and added Cipralex 10mg/day. Plus the Seroquel at night (100mg) and Lamictal 100mg twice daily.
Then, and this was the shock (!), he asked me if I would consider ECT. My first thought was, "bloody hell, I really am that bad" and promptly told him NO, NEVER. he talked through how it works and encouraged me to do some research and that he had seen good results when he was doing ssome training in America and that it might prompt the medication to work in the future. With treatment resistant depression and with me, the meds work for a certain period and then I become "tolerant" to them.
I sighed, cried and then said if this round of meds doesn't work then I might consider it.
He then suggested I went as an inpatient for three months. Problem is my health insurer. And I think it's a good idea to go back to the bin for a while. Am considering going back to the UK and trying to get admitted there if I can't here.
All a bit of a heavy appointment and too much to think about. However, I am feeling a bit lighter today and haven't reacted to the new medication yet, but it would probably help if I stopped getting roaring drunk every night (starting on the Tuesday by meeting up with a good friend of mine).
My BBF will be phoning me later to persuade me to come and live with her in the UK. A friend I met up with yesterday also told me to go back as I "have no life here and it isn't doing me any good". Yeah, she always makes me feel better....not.
So I will be on holiday in the UK to see friends/family from Wednesday to the last week of October - thinking time and decisions to be made.
Let me explain, I have been feeling REALLY bad - one of my GPs has been seeing me every two days to check I am still alive and to support me towards my psych appointment.
The kind of things that have been happening have included feeling suicidal, crying a lot, not sleeping (well that's been ongoing since April), heavy body feeling, no energy, feeling empty and imagining conversations have happened when they haven't, imagining experiencing things when I haven't, poor memory - I could go on but don't want to bore you.
Anyway, Dr I said that what I was experiencing was typical of deep depression and considering I have this, plus a mood disorder (daren't ask him which one), plus the stress of no job and the stress of a relationship split have all contributed to my current state of mind.
We went on to further discussion about treatment options, including another medication change (number 5 I think) and he told me not to worry, there are another 81 medications I can try (he has a sense of humour like mine). So he has reduced the Venlafaxine to 150mg/day and added Cipralex 10mg/day. Plus the Seroquel at night (100mg) and Lamictal 100mg twice daily.
Then, and this was the shock (!), he asked me if I would consider ECT. My first thought was, "bloody hell, I really am that bad" and promptly told him NO, NEVER. he talked through how it works and encouraged me to do some research and that he had seen good results when he was doing ssome training in America and that it might prompt the medication to work in the future. With treatment resistant depression and with me, the meds work for a certain period and then I become "tolerant" to them.
I sighed, cried and then said if this round of meds doesn't work then I might consider it.
He then suggested I went as an inpatient for three months. Problem is my health insurer. And I think it's a good idea to go back to the bin for a while. Am considering going back to the UK and trying to get admitted there if I can't here.
All a bit of a heavy appointment and too much to think about. However, I am feeling a bit lighter today and haven't reacted to the new medication yet, but it would probably help if I stopped getting roaring drunk every night (starting on the Tuesday by meeting up with a good friend of mine).
My BBF will be phoning me later to persuade me to come and live with her in the UK. A friend I met up with yesterday also told me to go back as I "have no life here and it isn't doing me any good". Yeah, she always makes me feel better....not.
So I will be on holiday in the UK to see friends/family from Wednesday to the last week of October - thinking time and decisions to be made.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
My experience of a Swiss Psychiatric Clinic 5
Morgenrunde was just an excuse to get us out of bed. In Ost 1 this was to allocate tasks to us for the day and to remind us of appointments. Here it was different. 15 of us in a circle in the “living room”. The gong would sound (one of those brass bowls rested on a patchwork cushion) and an exercise would be read out by whichever nurse was dedicated to that day (usually the trainees). Luckily the card they read from was in Hochdeutsch so I was able to understand a little more.
I think it was meant to be for relaxation before the day began proper, but as I didn’t like the groups I found it difficult. Plus I was always translating in my head, picking out the words that I knew and following the exercise, occasionally peeping under my eyelids to check what everyone else was doing. It didn’t relax me! I had to concentrate on understanding the German and if there was a word used repetitively that I didn’t know I would peep through my eyelids to see that everyone else was doing – also, I didn’t like having my eyes shut in a group of people. Anyhow, it was compulsory to attend and I would have paid anyone to get out of it – half an hour extra sleep would have relaxed me more.
My favourite one was the “in and out” breath. We had to imagine our breath was a colour and focus on the action. Mine never changed from black. Breathe out the badness from within; breathe in a grey air that was bringing more badness into me.
Of course, I always ended up next to Mr Letch or Danny de Vito so couldn’t relax anyway in case one of them brushed my thigh. Plus some exercises were plain ridiculous (standing and doing something like the hokey cokey in the guise of energising) and just didn’t do anything for me. Either way I usually ended up more tense than before . It was hard not to drift back to bed afterwards; I’d traumatised myself that much.
I did try, at the beginning. It just wasn’t something I found helpful to me in a larger group. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. And on Thursdays we had double dose! Morgenrunde plus in the afternoon a station meeting, all compulsory.
Sunday, 12 July 2009
My experience of a Swiss Psycho Clinic Part 4
One of the action points in my care plan in some blind hope that I might be able to get a full night’s sleep naturally, was to have a warm, scented bath before bed. Now, not having a bath at home, only a shower, I loved the idea and was rather surprised that we could be unaccompanied and not, as in “Girl, Interrupted” with a nurse supervising all the time (that would kind of defeat the point of relaxing).
The afternoon nurse was too preoccupied with a returning M who wanted to pour her soul out and I was sick of waiting for her attention, so I interrupted and asked if I could have a bath that evening (M could be there for hours hogging all the care staff for herself). The nurse was short with me and in a way rightly so because I interrupted but I thought bollocks to that – if they want a private conversation, go in a private room – don’t be in the nurses’ station with the door open – it wasn’t my fault that there was only one member of staff.
Begrudgingly she ran down the corridor and unlocked the door to the bathroom and left me to it.
I decided to forget about asking for aromatherapy oils from the nurse and as the water started to flow from the taps I adjusted the temperature and found a bottle of bath oil, maybe from a past patient.
I left the water to run as I gathered fresh towels (we had a linen cupboard full of clean bedding and towels which we were allowed to help ourselves to as many times as we wanted.), my pyjamas, dotting backwards and forwards between my room and the bathroom to check the water level before finally locking myself in the bathroom and drawing the (rather flimsy) curtains. I undressed. No mirrors to check whether my love handles were expanding with all the food. Just a framed collage of bathing babies behind a panel of glass. The bath jutted out into the room rather than flush against the wall and I wondered why this was. Then I realised it was probably so that the nurses could stand either side and lift somebody out if they had tried to kill themselves (with the glass from the framed baby picture) and to be honest I had the time undisturbed and the equipment (I also had bic razors I could dismantle) had I wanted to.
As I slid into the warm water and floated there, my mind mulled over the times when in a panic attack I had contemplated exiting out of this life and the subsequent decision that I couldn’t leave my boyfriend behind , but hurting myself might just distract me from the pain of being. Why couldn’t I just “be”? Why couldn’t I be one of those people with a permanent smile and happy demeanour who embraced life, even the mundane? My mind was always restless with questions. Why did my brothers speak so cruelly too me? Why had my ex boyfriend left me because he falsely believed I had cheated on him? Why on earth did my current boyfriend want to be with me? I couldn’t find the reasons. Why had so much shit been thrown at me most of my life and why couldn't I deal with it anymore. Why couldn’t I just move on? Why?
These and other questions rolled around me head. Flashbacks of bathing at the house of the parents of my ex boyfriend while they conversed downstairs, the surprise bath J prepared for me after a particularly bad week at work (candles, scented oils – I cried), the new bathroom we’d installed at our house (ex and me) which I had loved. I couldn’t just be in the moment; I had to bring in bittersweet or bad memories.
The tears came inevitably. But I held on as my need to get out of the clinic back to J held on. I couldn’t talk to “them” right now about my fears in case they kept me in longer, which that thought outweighed the long term. It was a no-win situation. (Plus the nurse working that night was a bitch).
Maybe I was just a victim? My ex had called me that once when I slept on the floor as I refused to sleep in the same bed as him until he told me what was wrong. It was so harsh when I was so fragile and at the time (and still now) I didn’t understand how someone who says they love you and stay with you forever through thick and thin and then turn on you like that. This stayed with me and infiltrated my current relationship no matter how hard I tried not to let it. Self preservation – keep your heart wrapped up-once it’s been exposed once, kicked about and stamped on by someone you love,, its once too many.
I wasn’t sure how much longer J would put up with me. I love him but I knew I wasn’t being fair, although I would fight to the death to do anything for him. But he was not just my world, he was my guardian angel throughout my time in the clinic (and before). Patient, kind, forthright, clear and endless love and affection for me. I am so lucky.
I had taken the plunge two weeks earlier telling him about my self-harm and trying to explain about it. I knew he wouldn’t understand having not experienced such feelings but he was amazing. If he was shocked or scared he didn’t let it show just made him more determined to “be there” for me and he was in a way my ex hadn’t. So why couldn't I "get over it"?
The afternoon nurse was too preoccupied with a returning M who wanted to pour her soul out and I was sick of waiting for her attention, so I interrupted and asked if I could have a bath that evening (M could be there for hours hogging all the care staff for herself). The nurse was short with me and in a way rightly so because I interrupted but I thought bollocks to that – if they want a private conversation, go in a private room – don’t be in the nurses’ station with the door open – it wasn’t my fault that there was only one member of staff.
Begrudgingly she ran down the corridor and unlocked the door to the bathroom and left me to it.
I decided to forget about asking for aromatherapy oils from the nurse and as the water started to flow from the taps I adjusted the temperature and found a bottle of bath oil, maybe from a past patient.
I left the water to run as I gathered fresh towels (we had a linen cupboard full of clean bedding and towels which we were allowed to help ourselves to as many times as we wanted.), my pyjamas, dotting backwards and forwards between my room and the bathroom to check the water level before finally locking myself in the bathroom and drawing the (rather flimsy) curtains. I undressed. No mirrors to check whether my love handles were expanding with all the food. Just a framed collage of bathing babies behind a panel of glass. The bath jutted out into the room rather than flush against the wall and I wondered why this was. Then I realised it was probably so that the nurses could stand either side and lift somebody out if they had tried to kill themselves (with the glass from the framed baby picture) and to be honest I had the time undisturbed and the equipment (I also had bic razors I could dismantle) had I wanted to.
As I slid into the warm water and floated there, my mind mulled over the times when in a panic attack I had contemplated exiting out of this life and the subsequent decision that I couldn’t leave my boyfriend behind , but hurting myself might just distract me from the pain of being. Why couldn’t I just “be”? Why couldn’t I be one of those people with a permanent smile and happy demeanour who embraced life, even the mundane? My mind was always restless with questions. Why did my brothers speak so cruelly too me? Why had my ex boyfriend left me because he falsely believed I had cheated on him? Why on earth did my current boyfriend want to be with me? I couldn’t find the reasons. Why had so much shit been thrown at me most of my life and why couldn't I deal with it anymore. Why couldn’t I just move on? Why?
These and other questions rolled around me head. Flashbacks of bathing at the house of the parents of my ex boyfriend while they conversed downstairs, the surprise bath J prepared for me after a particularly bad week at work (candles, scented oils – I cried), the new bathroom we’d installed at our house (ex and me) which I had loved. I couldn’t just be in the moment; I had to bring in bittersweet or bad memories.
The tears came inevitably. But I held on as my need to get out of the clinic back to J held on. I couldn’t talk to “them” right now about my fears in case they kept me in longer, which that thought outweighed the long term. It was a no-win situation. (Plus the nurse working that night was a bitch).
Maybe I was just a victim? My ex had called me that once when I slept on the floor as I refused to sleep in the same bed as him until he told me what was wrong. It was so harsh when I was so fragile and at the time (and still now) I didn’t understand how someone who says they love you and stay with you forever through thick and thin and then turn on you like that. This stayed with me and infiltrated my current relationship no matter how hard I tried not to let it. Self preservation – keep your heart wrapped up-once it’s been exposed once, kicked about and stamped on by someone you love,, its once too many.
I wasn’t sure how much longer J would put up with me. I love him but I knew I wasn’t being fair, although I would fight to the death to do anything for him. But he was not just my world, he was my guardian angel throughout my time in the clinic (and before). Patient, kind, forthright, clear and endless love and affection for me. I am so lucky.
I had taken the plunge two weeks earlier telling him about my self-harm and trying to explain about it. I knew he wouldn’t understand having not experienced such feelings but he was amazing. If he was shocked or scared he didn’t let it show just made him more determined to “be there” for me and he was in a way my ex hadn’t. So why couldn't I "get over it"?
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
My experience of a Swiss Psycho Clinic Part 3
If ever there was a day when I felt truly like a mental patient, it was this one. I don't usually get aggressive with depression but I sure as hell wanted to start throwing a massive hissy fit and start throwing things. Still wondereing if it was some sort of test.
Anyhoo, here's my recollection of a "craft" afternoon which was optional but you got more hassle if you didn't go. You Will Comply.
We trudged into the small art room. I still wasn’t really sure what was going on because I hadn’t listened at our ward meeting the day before, but the situation became clearer when I surveyed the table. On it were four boxes which contained envelopes and cards in an assortment of colours; blues, pinks, recycled brown, green fleck and shiny white. A small pile of dry silk screen prints were set beside them. Our care worker AR placed three pairs of scissors on the table. Scissors! Lovely, shiny, new, sharp scissors glinted in the light in their packaging, calling to me and winking hello with their two eyeholes! I snatched a guilty looking pair before anyone else could touch them.
“So” said AR, “we cut the fabric like so and stick it to the card with these (holds up photo mounts) and then make it neat with a sheet of paper to hide the back of the fabric.”
I had hoped that if I used up the A5 sheet of silk screen print that my contribution to the task would be complete and that I could go. But no, it continued, Snip, rustle, stick, stick, bang, pile. I huffily took another sheet of silk screen print (heart attack pink this time) and started cutting it with a vengeance. I was so bored and it was only fifteen minutes into the exercise.
The other patients must have made the silk screen prints before their morning medication kicked in – the designs were trip inspiring to say the least. Danny de Vito lookalike clearly thought they were wonderful. Sitting in an Hawaiian shirt which could have been made by the same patients, he decided to perform a running commentary throughout.
“Bloody man”, I thought to myself and tried to block out his inane chatter. Not easy when the snip, stick, rustle, bang, pile is starting to get to your subconscious.
CUT, rustle, stick; stick; BANG! I moodily made another five cards and added them to the pile. I compared this to everyone else’s three or four in total (Danny De Vito still on his first).
“It’s how they get you to stay”, I thought to myself. “Make sure you are in tense situations and crave the very stuff that you can’t have until you crack and then GOTCHA!”
“All right Frau Els?” AR asked me, concerned. I jumped, wiped my thoughts from my face, fixed a sweet smile and replied, “Super, danke”. I returned to my sulking and the monotony of the task. I felt like crying. I missed my boyfriend. I felt brain dead doing this stupid task and wanted to be outside.
“I think we’ve made enough”, said AR. “Let’s clear up”.
Hoo-effing-ray.
This was the moment that enough was enough – I had to get home to save my sanity. I swear I was more mentally stable before I went in there. I even tried phoning my doctor that afternoon who responded with, well you know its going to be difficult and stick it out kind of response. AAAARGGGHHH.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
My experience of a Swiss psychiatric clinic (2)
The next morning, while walking to the station through the rain, my boyfriend and I formulated a story that I was going to England to update my Employment Law for my professional qualification in Human Resources – this was perfect because I would not be away for long and if I came back for the weekend it was a natural break between courses. . I purchased our tickets from the machine rather than going to the ticket desk – people knew me – they would surely notice I was buying a one way ticket to Meiringen and everyone knew what that meant.
J asked me how I was every 5 minutes. I just wanted to bawl my eyes out as I got more and more anxious – what was I doing? I had no clue as to who I was any more and the outside world became one big blur. The train journey was tense and I chain smoked at any opportunity. I felt confused, scared, numb, sad all at once and wished that the clinic was closer to home. With connections the journey took at best 1½ hours, at worst 2 hours even though it was only two valleys away as the crow flies. I was paranoid that everyone on the train could see me and my case and knew that I was mental. John was really calming and I felt guilty that he had to go through this experience. I remember that I kept apologising to him and he kept reassuring me – how draining that must have been for him.
We arrived at the destination station and although I had printed a map from the internet I couldn’t work out in which direction I should take to get to the clinic. So we called a taxi – I was so embarrassed that the taxi driver would know that I was being admitted, particularly when he dropped us off explaining that the entrance in front of us was for admissions. The drive wasn’t far to get there and to get to the admissions entrance, located in a large three storey building we passed the clinic tennis courts and the Funicular railway that takes you to the top of the Reichenbach Falls made famous by Sherlock Holmes. All was looking very high class.
I introduced myself to the receptionist (my boyfriend had joked that he looked more like the one who should be admitted) and we were asked to wait in the vestibule conservatory which looked out onto the gardens in front of the clinic. I was feeling very anxious by this stage and was nearly in tears – what was I doing?! I didn’t want to leave my boyfriend. We waited what seemed like an eternal five minutes for someone to arrive to take me to my home for the next week (or so I thought).
One thing I noticed about the clinic was that no-one looked like a nurse or doctor. In England it is very formal – suits and professionalism but in Switzerland I was likely to see my doctor in jeans. I didn’t mind this at all and felt comfortable as I think that suits create a formal barrier. Nurses both male and female at the clinic wore their own casual clothes and a name badge (which surprised me – think of the sharp pin on the back that some nutter could grab). My nurse for my admission was I think some kind of trainee, very pleasant and not great English but I managed to stumble through my German enough to be understood. She led us out of the building we were in across the forecourt and car park, past a restaurant (restaurant!) towards a two story building covered in overlapping blue/grey tiles which was open at one side of a square and overlooked a grass courtyard. Another building was attached to one corner of the square and this housed the thermal bath (wow – a spa!) and treatment rooms. I was led into a building labelled both old age care (I realised after a while that it was for geriatrics with mental health problems and not in fact anorexics) and emergency “acute” ward. The “akut” ward was the “closed ward” my doctor had spoke of.
This was to be my first experience of being locked up – all the carers, nurses and doctors had big bunches of keys and I came to spend many hours trying to figure out how I could get hold of a set without them knowing. Nora, my nurse assigned to me unlocked the door to the ward and led me and my boyfriend inside, closing and locking the door behind. We were led along a corridor with identical wide, white doors labelled with numbers or “Bad” (bathroom), “Besprechen” (meeting room) and suchlike. I was first led to a small medical room and asked to take my coat off. How humiliating – I was searched for sharp objects. I had kind of worked out that perhaps I wouldn’t be able to take my Gillette Venus razor “inside” and had to resort to hair removing cream (no way I was going to look like a gorilla when my boyfriend finally saw me again) but I was still shocked I was experiencing treatment like I was some kind of criminal in a police station, but I understood why they had to check – after all, there were a lot of nutters admitted who probably had whole knives on their person.
I was weighed (63 kilos – oooh, lost two since five months before without even trying), height measured, asked when I last had sex, bottom probed etc, etc, (Ok I am lying about the last two) and then we were taken to the “Besprechung” room where there was not one, but two other people, myself, my boyfriend and my new nurse. The doctor introduced himself (he looked so young how could he possibly be able to help me – I would give him a chance to prove himself though) as did another (male) nurse. They all sat there like it was an interview panel with pens and paper and a file in front of them. I didn’t like this. They asked me if I wanted to talk in German or English (English for this although I was embarrassed by it) and did I want my boyfriend present (No, because I hadn’t told him the full story and now was not the time or place). I was waiting for them to start taping the interview but they just took notes instead. John was released outside to smoke a packet of fags no doubt.
I began to talk. I cried. I stopped talking because I was too busy crying. Someone got me a fruit tea (one of many cups I was to drink in there), they interrogated me (every question to me in that state felt like a grilling) and finally they called my boyfriend back in the room. They asked him what I had been like. Now, my boyfriend is naturally suspicious of questions and of hospital like places, so I knew he wasn’t really going to lay it on thick. But he was as honest as he could be, the main worry for him was that he didn’t understand what was going on. It was surreal even to me, and I was the one who had agreed to go there.
The whole admission process took about two hours. Eventually I was shown to my allocated room for the night. It was a large, ground floor room with two “hospital” type beds in, overlooking a grass courtyard. To the other side of the courtyard were some outside tables and chairs where there was an old grey haired tramp (or so he looked) dressed in denim and smoking roll ups. The patio doors from my room to a small glass conservatory which led to this courtyard were locked. The other window next to my bed looking out was also locked. I started to feel oh so slightly claustrophobic.
While my boyfriend looked on, Nora let me unpack my few belongings and checked each item for more forbidden items. She took my mobile phone charger, iPod and charger and my purse. We were only allowed our mobile phones between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., they would be charged in the nurse’s station. If we needed money we could ask for it again from the nurse’s station. She finally took my medication to be stored in a safe place, presumably to prevent me from taking an overdose. From now on, my tablets would be counted out and issued to me at strict timings throughout the day, usually with mealtimes.
The time came for me to say goodbye to my boyfriend, J. Poor guy, he looked more shell shocked than me and I knew he was twitching at even stepping foot in an institution, let alone the shock that his girlfriend was seriously ill. Still, I reassured him I would be out next week. As we passed the smoking room (yes, smoking is allowed in Switzerland) and I thanked my stars that I wasn’t in the UK where smoking was banned, I became less and less confident. My J was going home – I wasn’t. The doors were finally unlocked for J to go home and I gave him a hug. It was a bear hug like I will never forget and a lot of unspoken words were passed between us.
The door closed behind him. I knew he would come and visit at the weekend.
I returned to my room alone and sad. While I placed my belongings in some kind of order in the lockable cupboards provided, I reflected on the morning and the emotions that had been brought up. Here I was in near isolation, exhausted, weepy, knowing that I wanted to die but unable to explain why, wanting my boyfriend desperately, worrying that he was going to leave me like the last one had. I felt totally alone. As I put my wash things in the small bathroom I noticed that even the door didn’t have a lock and that everything was nailed or screwed down with no sharp edges or potential weapons of self harm.
I finally collapsed onto my bed huddled in a ball and wept, thinking all the time what a failure I was.
I couldn’t even do that alone. Every five minutes it seemed that my self pity was interrupted with questions about my medical insurance, was I OK, did I know it was lunchtime (I was most definitely NOT hungry) and that it was time to take my medication. Would I ever get any peace I wondered?
I ventured out of my room and along the corridor to the kitchen and dining area. All of a sudden, people kept introducing themselves, shaking hands and asking my name as the Swiss do. I knew they were trying to make me feel at ease but I just wanted to be left alone. When the meal wagon arrived (a large metal cabinet with rows of ready prepared trays) it was explained how to find the tray with my name and how to clear up afterwards.
I nibbled at my food and couldn’t wait to bolt back to my room, my semi safe haven. Occasionally I would glance sideways at the other patients. M would rock backwards and forwards in his chair, seated at a table well away from the rest of us. I couldn’t help but stare at him – couldn’t anyone see how funny he looked, rocking each time he ate a mouthful of food. He was clearly a bit mad. Then there was Frau X who stood back until everyone had collected their tray before she would take hers, nervously stepping in. T would scrounge everyone’s leftovers and being on the large side I wondered if she was meant to be eating them. I tried to avoid the men as they could have been sex attackers for all I knew. I felt bad for viewing the other patients in this way as after all, they were all lovely once I got over my initial suspicion and I was no different to any of them (except for Herr M, who one of the nurses put was “just a bit mad” when I complained about his constant screaming all day. We never saw him but the nurses would frequently check on him especially when it sounded like he would kick the door down. He was a definite candidate for plastic utensils and crockery. (We were allowed real knives and forks, except we had to ask for the bread to be cut with a breadknife which was then locked away again by a member of staff).
After lunch I again curled up into a ball and varied between sleeping and crying. I was so scared and confused. The nurses checked on me about ever half an hour, taking blood pressure checks and pulse checks, asking me if I was OK and finally a humiliating physical check by the doctor. Humiliating because I felt exposed and vulnerable despite the female nurse observing and I was worried the doctor would find something medically wrong with me. Finally I was left alone again.
The cleaners came in and washed the floor and bathroom. I lay curled up on the bed, disinterested. I crept under my duvet after they went and slept some more. I felt numb and confused but began to feel more comfortable in my little bubble.
Nora came in and took my insurance details (the all important medical insurance which would fund my stay at the clinic). She also checked what food I would like daily from a checklist. I could choose a continental breakfast or muesli, fruit juice or milk, a yogurt. I could be vegetarian if I liked. I selected bread and conserve for breakfast with a plain yogurt and a no fish dinner. We had menu plans given to us in advance for the week so we had some idea of what we were to eat.
It is usual in Switzerland for the main meal to be at lunchtime and to have a light supper. All our mealtimes were regimented – breakfast between 7.30 – 8.10 a.m., lunch between 11.30 - 12.10 and evening supper at 5.30 – 6.10. We received our medication from the medical staff at the same time. There were no extra snacks unless we shopped in town, which we had to ask permission for and were usually restricted to how long we could leave the unit for. To begin with I was allowed half an hour a day on my own, presumably so I didn’t have time to go and get plastered on alcohol. But at the beginning I had no intention of leaving my room, I was happy with my duvet and book. I read the three books that I had with me over and over again. Soon it was time for evening dinner, so I crept from my room and waited nervously by the lunch wagon. I wasn’t really hungry to be honest, but didn’t want the nurses to be hassling me to get up and go and eat. When my meal finally arrived on the meal wagon, I snatched it and sat in a corner.
J asked me how I was every 5 minutes. I just wanted to bawl my eyes out as I got more and more anxious – what was I doing? I had no clue as to who I was any more and the outside world became one big blur. The train journey was tense and I chain smoked at any opportunity. I felt confused, scared, numb, sad all at once and wished that the clinic was closer to home. With connections the journey took at best 1½ hours, at worst 2 hours even though it was only two valleys away as the crow flies. I was paranoid that everyone on the train could see me and my case and knew that I was mental. John was really calming and I felt guilty that he had to go through this experience. I remember that I kept apologising to him and he kept reassuring me – how draining that must have been for him.
We arrived at the destination station and although I had printed a map from the internet I couldn’t work out in which direction I should take to get to the clinic. So we called a taxi – I was so embarrassed that the taxi driver would know that I was being admitted, particularly when he dropped us off explaining that the entrance in front of us was for admissions. The drive wasn’t far to get there and to get to the admissions entrance, located in a large three storey building we passed the clinic tennis courts and the Funicular railway that takes you to the top of the Reichenbach Falls made famous by Sherlock Holmes. All was looking very high class.
I introduced myself to the receptionist (my boyfriend had joked that he looked more like the one who should be admitted) and we were asked to wait in the vestibule conservatory which looked out onto the gardens in front of the clinic. I was feeling very anxious by this stage and was nearly in tears – what was I doing?! I didn’t want to leave my boyfriend. We waited what seemed like an eternal five minutes for someone to arrive to take me to my home for the next week (or so I thought).
One thing I noticed about the clinic was that no-one looked like a nurse or doctor. In England it is very formal – suits and professionalism but in Switzerland I was likely to see my doctor in jeans. I didn’t mind this at all and felt comfortable as I think that suits create a formal barrier. Nurses both male and female at the clinic wore their own casual clothes and a name badge (which surprised me – think of the sharp pin on the back that some nutter could grab). My nurse for my admission was I think some kind of trainee, very pleasant and not great English but I managed to stumble through my German enough to be understood. She led us out of the building we were in across the forecourt and car park, past a restaurant (restaurant!) towards a two story building covered in overlapping blue/grey tiles which was open at one side of a square and overlooked a grass courtyard. Another building was attached to one corner of the square and this housed the thermal bath (wow – a spa!) and treatment rooms. I was led into a building labelled both old age care (I realised after a while that it was for geriatrics with mental health problems and not in fact anorexics) and emergency “acute” ward. The “akut” ward was the “closed ward” my doctor had spoke of.
This was to be my first experience of being locked up – all the carers, nurses and doctors had big bunches of keys and I came to spend many hours trying to figure out how I could get hold of a set without them knowing. Nora, my nurse assigned to me unlocked the door to the ward and led me and my boyfriend inside, closing and locking the door behind. We were led along a corridor with identical wide, white doors labelled with numbers or “Bad” (bathroom), “Besprechen” (meeting room) and suchlike. I was first led to a small medical room and asked to take my coat off. How humiliating – I was searched for sharp objects. I had kind of worked out that perhaps I wouldn’t be able to take my Gillette Venus razor “inside” and had to resort to hair removing cream (no way I was going to look like a gorilla when my boyfriend finally saw me again) but I was still shocked I was experiencing treatment like I was some kind of criminal in a police station, but I understood why they had to check – after all, there were a lot of nutters admitted who probably had whole knives on their person.
I was weighed (63 kilos – oooh, lost two since five months before without even trying), height measured, asked when I last had sex, bottom probed etc, etc, (Ok I am lying about the last two) and then we were taken to the “Besprechung” room where there was not one, but two other people, myself, my boyfriend and my new nurse. The doctor introduced himself (he looked so young how could he possibly be able to help me – I would give him a chance to prove himself though) as did another (male) nurse. They all sat there like it was an interview panel with pens and paper and a file in front of them. I didn’t like this. They asked me if I wanted to talk in German or English (English for this although I was embarrassed by it) and did I want my boyfriend present (No, because I hadn’t told him the full story and now was not the time or place). I was waiting for them to start taping the interview but they just took notes instead. John was released outside to smoke a packet of fags no doubt.
I began to talk. I cried. I stopped talking because I was too busy crying. Someone got me a fruit tea (one of many cups I was to drink in there), they interrogated me (every question to me in that state felt like a grilling) and finally they called my boyfriend back in the room. They asked him what I had been like. Now, my boyfriend is naturally suspicious of questions and of hospital like places, so I knew he wasn’t really going to lay it on thick. But he was as honest as he could be, the main worry for him was that he didn’t understand what was going on. It was surreal even to me, and I was the one who had agreed to go there.
The whole admission process took about two hours. Eventually I was shown to my allocated room for the night. It was a large, ground floor room with two “hospital” type beds in, overlooking a grass courtyard. To the other side of the courtyard were some outside tables and chairs where there was an old grey haired tramp (or so he looked) dressed in denim and smoking roll ups. The patio doors from my room to a small glass conservatory which led to this courtyard were locked. The other window next to my bed looking out was also locked. I started to feel oh so slightly claustrophobic.
While my boyfriend looked on, Nora let me unpack my few belongings and checked each item for more forbidden items. She took my mobile phone charger, iPod and charger and my purse. We were only allowed our mobile phones between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., they would be charged in the nurse’s station. If we needed money we could ask for it again from the nurse’s station. She finally took my medication to be stored in a safe place, presumably to prevent me from taking an overdose. From now on, my tablets would be counted out and issued to me at strict timings throughout the day, usually with mealtimes.
The time came for me to say goodbye to my boyfriend, J. Poor guy, he looked more shell shocked than me and I knew he was twitching at even stepping foot in an institution, let alone the shock that his girlfriend was seriously ill. Still, I reassured him I would be out next week. As we passed the smoking room (yes, smoking is allowed in Switzerland) and I thanked my stars that I wasn’t in the UK where smoking was banned, I became less and less confident. My J was going home – I wasn’t. The doors were finally unlocked for J to go home and I gave him a hug. It was a bear hug like I will never forget and a lot of unspoken words were passed between us.
The door closed behind him. I knew he would come and visit at the weekend.
I returned to my room alone and sad. While I placed my belongings in some kind of order in the lockable cupboards provided, I reflected on the morning and the emotions that had been brought up. Here I was in near isolation, exhausted, weepy, knowing that I wanted to die but unable to explain why, wanting my boyfriend desperately, worrying that he was going to leave me like the last one had. I felt totally alone. As I put my wash things in the small bathroom I noticed that even the door didn’t have a lock and that everything was nailed or screwed down with no sharp edges or potential weapons of self harm.
I finally collapsed onto my bed huddled in a ball and wept, thinking all the time what a failure I was.
I couldn’t even do that alone. Every five minutes it seemed that my self pity was interrupted with questions about my medical insurance, was I OK, did I know it was lunchtime (I was most definitely NOT hungry) and that it was time to take my medication. Would I ever get any peace I wondered?
I ventured out of my room and along the corridor to the kitchen and dining area. All of a sudden, people kept introducing themselves, shaking hands and asking my name as the Swiss do. I knew they were trying to make me feel at ease but I just wanted to be left alone. When the meal wagon arrived (a large metal cabinet with rows of ready prepared trays) it was explained how to find the tray with my name and how to clear up afterwards.
I nibbled at my food and couldn’t wait to bolt back to my room, my semi safe haven. Occasionally I would glance sideways at the other patients. M would rock backwards and forwards in his chair, seated at a table well away from the rest of us. I couldn’t help but stare at him – couldn’t anyone see how funny he looked, rocking each time he ate a mouthful of food. He was clearly a bit mad. Then there was Frau X who stood back until everyone had collected their tray before she would take hers, nervously stepping in. T would scrounge everyone’s leftovers and being on the large side I wondered if she was meant to be eating them. I tried to avoid the men as they could have been sex attackers for all I knew. I felt bad for viewing the other patients in this way as after all, they were all lovely once I got over my initial suspicion and I was no different to any of them (except for Herr M, who one of the nurses put was “just a bit mad” when I complained about his constant screaming all day. We never saw him but the nurses would frequently check on him especially when it sounded like he would kick the door down. He was a definite candidate for plastic utensils and crockery. (We were allowed real knives and forks, except we had to ask for the bread to be cut with a breadknife which was then locked away again by a member of staff).
After lunch I again curled up into a ball and varied between sleeping and crying. I was so scared and confused. The nurses checked on me about ever half an hour, taking blood pressure checks and pulse checks, asking me if I was OK and finally a humiliating physical check by the doctor. Humiliating because I felt exposed and vulnerable despite the female nurse observing and I was worried the doctor would find something medically wrong with me. Finally I was left alone again.
The cleaners came in and washed the floor and bathroom. I lay curled up on the bed, disinterested. I crept under my duvet after they went and slept some more. I felt numb and confused but began to feel more comfortable in my little bubble.
Nora came in and took my insurance details (the all important medical insurance which would fund my stay at the clinic). She also checked what food I would like daily from a checklist. I could choose a continental breakfast or muesli, fruit juice or milk, a yogurt. I could be vegetarian if I liked. I selected bread and conserve for breakfast with a plain yogurt and a no fish dinner. We had menu plans given to us in advance for the week so we had some idea of what we were to eat.
It is usual in Switzerland for the main meal to be at lunchtime and to have a light supper. All our mealtimes were regimented – breakfast between 7.30 – 8.10 a.m., lunch between 11.30 - 12.10 and evening supper at 5.30 – 6.10. We received our medication from the medical staff at the same time. There were no extra snacks unless we shopped in town, which we had to ask permission for and were usually restricted to how long we could leave the unit for. To begin with I was allowed half an hour a day on my own, presumably so I didn’t have time to go and get plastered on alcohol. But at the beginning I had no intention of leaving my room, I was happy with my duvet and book. I read the three books that I had with me over and over again. Soon it was time for evening dinner, so I crept from my room and waited nervously by the lunch wagon. I wasn’t really hungry to be honest, but didn’t want the nurses to be hassling me to get up and go and eat. When my meal finally arrived on the meal wagon, I snatched it and sat in a corner.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
My experience of a Psychiatric Clinic (Part 1)
I don’t really know how I ended up in the clinic – everything was such a muddle and a blur, but I remember that at one doctor’s appointment I was getting hysterical about feeling depressed, for which I was receiving another course of treatment, and admitted my feelings of wanting to self harm and that if I had a box of sleeping pills I would surely take them as an end to the constant buzzing and negativity going around my head. My doctor was away on holiday and I am not sure why I suddenly snapped, maybe something to do with the way my family had been speaking to me, but I was desperate enough to go to the doctor again, without an appointment and demand to see the assistant doctor. I hadn’t been to work for two days as I couldn’t cope any more and went straight to the doctor’s surgery.
She listened and wrote notes while I stumbled through a brief resume of my life story, getting frustrated at going over old ground again and begging for drugs to make it all go away. I was sobbing, I have no idea where it all came from – I didn’t feel like me, like the normal, rational person that I am. I think that was it, I couldn’t feel rational and I was scared of myself. I had come very, very close to harming myself with a sharp hair clip but somewhere deep inside I had clung onto I don’t know what, so I had ended up trying to pull my hair out. The distraction from the mental pain this would bring would be a welcome relief, I convinced myself. But I knew this way of thinking or behaving was unhealthy. I was scared that soon the inner voice would take over and convince me to injure myself or even worse, kill myself.
When the doctor first suggested that I go to a psychiatric clinic I was almost stunned that I had reached that low. Confusion, wanting to rest, sadness were all running through my mind but the more she described it, the more I felt it was a great place to escape. I had “done a runner” four years before to a Catholic retreat in the countryside and had found it beneficial (I’m not at all religious by the way), but here was an opportunity to get away from the pressures of life, of being me and away from work. I knew work wouldn’t be happy about it and I begged the doctor not to put a reason why on the medical certificate – the shame! She gave me a tablet to calm me down. I had finally admitted my thoughts about harming myself which had become more and more frequent. I hadn’t told my boyfriend (much to my regret as it was a huge shock for him) because I didn’t trust anyone except the medical profession after the last time around. I would desperately miss him but I was confident I would be out in a week. The doctor phoned the clinic and they offered a place the next morning, but they only had space in their closed unit at that time. I wasn’t sure what that meant – my doctor apologised – they didn’t have space in the open unit for another 3 weeks. I knew there was no way I could last that long, I was feeling that awful about myself. I didn’t really take in what she was saying but I knew the option was mine. Whilst I didn’t feel capable of making a decision, I knew this was an alternative option – access to medication, treatments and medical staff 24 hours a day, all week. I was desperate for myself and so I agreed. I was to be admitted the next day.
Of course, I had to explain this all to my boyfriend from whom I had hidden myself from so well – I was not looking forwards to doing this at all and wasn’t sure how he would react. I will never forget the look on his face when I told him I am sure (though he claims this is not the case) that the stigma for him having a girlfriend sent to the funny farm was running through his mind. Plus he was having a bad day at work anyway. I couldn’t understand it, I was feeling very low and I thought he understood that I was feeling this. But to be honest I hadn’t told him the half of it, because it’s hard to when you are depressed, so no wonder he was confused. Of course he was shocked and concerned, almost in denial (not surprisingly – I hadn’t told him the half of it so it wasn’t his fault) but he accepted I was going. He arranged to have the next day off work to go with me which I was relieved about. The clinic was 1 ½ hours by train with 2 changes and I wasn’t sure how I would be feeling – I didn’t want to be stranded on my own in a strange town. Poor J, he hates hospitals, especially “shrinks” so this would be twice as hard for him.
Dr R had explained that she would have to speak to the doctor’s in the clinic, write a report and then I could be admitted either the same day or in the morning. I decided to wait until the morning because she had given me some lovely drugs to calm me down and I was sure I would feel better and change my mind. After all, it was M clinic and everyone knows that it is for druggies and mad people. And what if they wanted to do that thing when they electrocute your brain like I had seen on TV? I had some reservations but I was at the stage where I was desperate for anyone to help me and by any method otherwise I was in danger of going on self destruct.
Dr R talked about what to expect if I went into the clinic, that there would be help and support 24 hours a day and seven days a week, whether that was drugs or therapy. When she initially spoke to the clinic, they had told her there was a three week waiting list for a space in an open ward, but there was a space in the closed ward. Dr R explained that this meant I would not have much freedom i.e. I would not be able to come and go as I pleased, but that this was only temporary until a space in the open wards became available. I agreed. At that stage it didn’t make much difference to me, I was starting to feel completely numb and disinterested in the real world. After all, it would only be for a couple of weeks, then my boyfriend and I would go on holiday and then the winter season would start (I live and work in a ski resort). She telephoned me in the afternoon to confirm what time I needed to “check in” on the following morning. I immediately checked the clinic website and found a list of what they suggested I bought with me. This included comfortable clothes for sports activities, current medication and my health insurance details, plus daily spending money. I was particularly interested in the suggestion that I could have “Reittherapie” (horse riding therapy) as I enjoyed horse riding and I pictured myself trotting through the valley on horseback, enjoying the autumn colours and the fresh air, forgetting all my worries. I recalled a book I had once read by Marian Keyes about a girl who is checked into a clinic for drug abuse and imagining she would be among celebrities. If I was among Swiss celebrities in my time there then they could only have been famous for bell ringing or yodelling because I had no idea who any of the patients in the private wing were!
But the realisation hit me when I started to pack that this was serious. I packed a small case with random items and filled my backpack with my iPod and mobile phone charger, a couple of books and enough underwear for a week, my current medication, spare pair of shoes, wash bag (without razor) because I knew I would be bringing it all back the following weekend when I signed myself out. Perhaps it would stretch to two weeks. My boyfriend was wandering around confused saying it wasn’t right, but all I could focus on was that I had to give it a go; after all it wasn’t for long. I felt scared too, very scared. The website indicated it was a Swiss leading hospital and open to international patients so I hoped that their English language skills were good as my German was not of the standard for this type of crisis.
She listened and wrote notes while I stumbled through a brief resume of my life story, getting frustrated at going over old ground again and begging for drugs to make it all go away. I was sobbing, I have no idea where it all came from – I didn’t feel like me, like the normal, rational person that I am. I think that was it, I couldn’t feel rational and I was scared of myself. I had come very, very close to harming myself with a sharp hair clip but somewhere deep inside I had clung onto I don’t know what, so I had ended up trying to pull my hair out. The distraction from the mental pain this would bring would be a welcome relief, I convinced myself. But I knew this way of thinking or behaving was unhealthy. I was scared that soon the inner voice would take over and convince me to injure myself or even worse, kill myself.
When the doctor first suggested that I go to a psychiatric clinic I was almost stunned that I had reached that low. Confusion, wanting to rest, sadness were all running through my mind but the more she described it, the more I felt it was a great place to escape. I had “done a runner” four years before to a Catholic retreat in the countryside and had found it beneficial (I’m not at all religious by the way), but here was an opportunity to get away from the pressures of life, of being me and away from work. I knew work wouldn’t be happy about it and I begged the doctor not to put a reason why on the medical certificate – the shame! She gave me a tablet to calm me down. I had finally admitted my thoughts about harming myself which had become more and more frequent. I hadn’t told my boyfriend (much to my regret as it was a huge shock for him) because I didn’t trust anyone except the medical profession after the last time around. I would desperately miss him but I was confident I would be out in a week. The doctor phoned the clinic and they offered a place the next morning, but they only had space in their closed unit at that time. I wasn’t sure what that meant – my doctor apologised – they didn’t have space in the open unit for another 3 weeks. I knew there was no way I could last that long, I was feeling that awful about myself. I didn’t really take in what she was saying but I knew the option was mine. Whilst I didn’t feel capable of making a decision, I knew this was an alternative option – access to medication, treatments and medical staff 24 hours a day, all week. I was desperate for myself and so I agreed. I was to be admitted the next day.
Of course, I had to explain this all to my boyfriend from whom I had hidden myself from so well – I was not looking forwards to doing this at all and wasn’t sure how he would react. I will never forget the look on his face when I told him I am sure (though he claims this is not the case) that the stigma for him having a girlfriend sent to the funny farm was running through his mind. Plus he was having a bad day at work anyway. I couldn’t understand it, I was feeling very low and I thought he understood that I was feeling this. But to be honest I hadn’t told him the half of it, because it’s hard to when you are depressed, so no wonder he was confused. Of course he was shocked and concerned, almost in denial (not surprisingly – I hadn’t told him the half of it so it wasn’t his fault) but he accepted I was going. He arranged to have the next day off work to go with me which I was relieved about. The clinic was 1 ½ hours by train with 2 changes and I wasn’t sure how I would be feeling – I didn’t want to be stranded on my own in a strange town. Poor J, he hates hospitals, especially “shrinks” so this would be twice as hard for him.
Dr R had explained that she would have to speak to the doctor’s in the clinic, write a report and then I could be admitted either the same day or in the morning. I decided to wait until the morning because she had given me some lovely drugs to calm me down and I was sure I would feel better and change my mind. After all, it was M clinic and everyone knows that it is for druggies and mad people. And what if they wanted to do that thing when they electrocute your brain like I had seen on TV? I had some reservations but I was at the stage where I was desperate for anyone to help me and by any method otherwise I was in danger of going on self destruct.
Dr R talked about what to expect if I went into the clinic, that there would be help and support 24 hours a day and seven days a week, whether that was drugs or therapy. When she initially spoke to the clinic, they had told her there was a three week waiting list for a space in an open ward, but there was a space in the closed ward. Dr R explained that this meant I would not have much freedom i.e. I would not be able to come and go as I pleased, but that this was only temporary until a space in the open wards became available. I agreed. At that stage it didn’t make much difference to me, I was starting to feel completely numb and disinterested in the real world. After all, it would only be for a couple of weeks, then my boyfriend and I would go on holiday and then the winter season would start (I live and work in a ski resort). She telephoned me in the afternoon to confirm what time I needed to “check in” on the following morning. I immediately checked the clinic website and found a list of what they suggested I bought with me. This included comfortable clothes for sports activities, current medication and my health insurance details, plus daily spending money. I was particularly interested in the suggestion that I could have “Reittherapie” (horse riding therapy) as I enjoyed horse riding and I pictured myself trotting through the valley on horseback, enjoying the autumn colours and the fresh air, forgetting all my worries. I recalled a book I had once read by Marian Keyes about a girl who is checked into a clinic for drug abuse and imagining she would be among celebrities. If I was among Swiss celebrities in my time there then they could only have been famous for bell ringing or yodelling because I had no idea who any of the patients in the private wing were!
But the realisation hit me when I started to pack that this was serious. I packed a small case with random items and filled my backpack with my iPod and mobile phone charger, a couple of books and enough underwear for a week, my current medication, spare pair of shoes, wash bag (without razor) because I knew I would be bringing it all back the following weekend when I signed myself out. Perhaps it would stretch to two weeks. My boyfriend was wandering around confused saying it wasn’t right, but all I could focus on was that I had to give it a go; after all it wasn’t for long. I felt scared too, very scared. The website indicated it was a Swiss leading hospital and open to international patients so I hoped that their English language skills were good as my German was not of the standard for this type of crisis.
Monday, 25 May 2009
Therapy
So I've been looking at my old journals today and it seems that the last year and a half of therapy has helped. Just to explain, I spent 7 weeks in a psychiatric clinic in 2007 and once they finally let me out I agreed that yes, maybe I did need to see a psychiatrist after all.
Here I am. Need the meds to get me out of bed and to get me through the day. Meds to get me to go out and interact with people. Boyfriend (J) is luckily very supportive but even he says he doesn't really understand what is going on which is strange seeing as he was in the army and was (his account) pretty mental himself. But we have this understanding (?!) kind of balance that when I cry he is always there and when he is at work I do eff all because it's comfy lying on the sofa all day watching CSI Miami DVD's.
Not too bad today, just very tired. Couldn't sleep last night (probably because I took my meds at 10 p.m. instead of 8 a.m. but don't tell my Psychiatrist), J fast asleep. Cat on floor so that he could stay cool, me wide awake. Dilemma: a) wake boyfriend so that he can't sleep either, b) grab more drugs and let them kick in or, c) try a distraction technique and let me "naturally" wind down and go and watch some TV. I had a combination of b+c, J has to work today.
I found myself watching the True Movies channel and got engrossed into a film about a mother who dies of cancer when her child is just over a year old. Really cheery stuff, just right for a depressive person. So I cried some more and went to bed, only waking up about 10 a.m. (I LOVE my bed) when my work colleague knocked at the door. I pretended I had been doing some exercise and was just off for a shower hence the reason I am in my dressing gown.
My point is, the therapy has helped - I no longer dread facing the day because I have lots of lovely lovely drugs to help me. I'm not proud I'm lazy - I could try changing my diet, natural supplements, lots of exercise, meditating etc etc and all the other ideas out there that I have researched but it's just not for me at the moment. Just give me the drugs, I have a wobble every now and then and life goes on. (Actually that last sentence has depressed me already). Before I spent EVERY DAY crying about I don't know what, would stay in bed all day (I still love my bed), would feel physically sick and panicky if I had to leave the house and meet people and explain why I wasn't drinking (more lies) to people I didn't like anyway.
Oh well, off to watch more DVD's and enjoy the sunshine, it's supposed to a better cure than my happy pills.
Here I am. Need the meds to get me out of bed and to get me through the day. Meds to get me to go out and interact with people. Boyfriend (J) is luckily very supportive but even he says he doesn't really understand what is going on which is strange seeing as he was in the army and was (his account) pretty mental himself. But we have this understanding (?!) kind of balance that when I cry he is always there and when he is at work I do eff all because it's comfy lying on the sofa all day watching CSI Miami DVD's.
Not too bad today, just very tired. Couldn't sleep last night (probably because I took my meds at 10 p.m. instead of 8 a.m. but don't tell my Psychiatrist), J fast asleep. Cat on floor so that he could stay cool, me wide awake. Dilemma: a) wake boyfriend so that he can't sleep either, b) grab more drugs and let them kick in or, c) try a distraction technique and let me "naturally" wind down and go and watch some TV. I had a combination of b+c, J has to work today.
I found myself watching the True Movies channel and got engrossed into a film about a mother who dies of cancer when her child is just over a year old. Really cheery stuff, just right for a depressive person. So I cried some more and went to bed, only waking up about 10 a.m. (I LOVE my bed) when my work colleague knocked at the door. I pretended I had been doing some exercise and was just off for a shower hence the reason I am in my dressing gown.
My point is, the therapy has helped - I no longer dread facing the day because I have lots of lovely lovely drugs to help me. I'm not proud I'm lazy - I could try changing my diet, natural supplements, lots of exercise, meditating etc etc and all the other ideas out there that I have researched but it's just not for me at the moment. Just give me the drugs, I have a wobble every now and then and life goes on. (Actually that last sentence has depressed me already). Before I spent EVERY DAY crying about I don't know what, would stay in bed all day (I still love my bed), would feel physically sick and panicky if I had to leave the house and meet people and explain why I wasn't drinking (more lies) to people I didn't like anyway.
Oh well, off to watch more DVD's and enjoy the sunshine, it's supposed to a better cure than my happy pills.
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