And it really was. I just spent 3 weeks in the UK, on the Isles of Scilly and in Hastings and Bristol seeing all my lovely friends and my nephews and neice.
That aside, I had some good chats with friends about the proposed treatment plans and all were really supportive surprisingly. All were of the opinion that any chance given to me to help recovery is a chance worth taking. Hmm. I spoke to my brother about it and I think he was a bit shocked if a little bemused as to what ECT actually entails. But hopefully he understands that things have not been easy at all. My mum came to visit me in Hastings and I had an in depth chat with her. She is relieved that I am going to return to the UK and live back on the south coast where I have godparents nearby, my best mate (who I will be living with) and my best mate's parents who are like second family for me. I think she was shocked but she took it well. I felt releived to have spoken to her and she was really supportive and a bit emotional. It's strange, I wouldn't say I am overly close with mum but she steps up to the plate in a crisis and easy to talk to.
First thing I did when I returned to Switzerland was book an appointment with my "GP", Dr A. I thought I had a cold sore before I went to the UK but it was actually impetigo and after a course of penicillin based antibiotics which I am allergic to (old GP said try them and stop if I get a reaction - I had a slight reaction but thought it was best to discontinue in case it got worse. I am definately allergic) and an unsuccessful dabble with cortisone cream I finally went to a walk in centre, queued up with the methadone addicts and got some antibiotic cream, which has really worked.
I digress. Dr A agreed to continue the cream and prescribed (non penicillin) antibiotics. Then, as he has been in Zimbabwe doing aid work since August/September we had a good natter (that's what I love about him, he totally overruns appointments with me although the Swissie in the waiting room probably hadn't got much else to do anyway. He asked me how the appointment with my psychiatrist went and I said about the change in medication and the ECT discussion. He asked if I was "shocked" (fnaah fnaah) about the suggestion and I said of course I was and that I was undecided and that it was difficult to consider it when I feel so much better at the moment. Do I then wait until I am in the depths again? He said Dr I and he considered that a lot of people in my situation have big highs and big lows and somewhere in the middle. But that in my case I had deep lows and "kind of OK" which was my somewhere in the middle most of the time. He mentioned mood disorder again but as I am still in denial as to what that might be, I didn't push that point further. Anyway, I explained that the break in the UK had helped rather than be admitted as an inpatient and that the Cipralex seemed to be working really well in combination with the other medications.
I see Dr A again tomorrow (so maybe he will have some pirated DVD's from Zimbabwe for me) and to check the impetigo which is clearing up nicely (although am pissed off I have got it as I haven't been near little germ filled fuckers since winter and apparently they are the culprits of the infection). I see Dr I (my lovely psychiatrist) on the 7th November.
Tonight I am feeling rather lonely. Since all the socialising in the UK, which exhausted me, I was a bit naughty last night and had too much alcohol. So I am attributing this to my low mood today and the fact that I was crying uncontrollably at the end of a film on Channel 5 earlier. I even missed fire practice this week as I couldn't face being in a crowd of people and the effort of speaking Swiss, which I am still struggling to adjust to after my holiday (usually it comes fluently to me - time to put back on German TV). I am contemplating the thought of a winter alone (although I am settled in NOT being in a relationship) but winter I must work to give me time to claim back my social insurance and pay off any remaining bills before the plan of returning to the UK in April 12. And I am TERRIFIED of going back even though it is the right thing to do, and living in a large town. I will certainly be saving up money to get me a place in Cornwall asap, much smaller environment.
If it hadn't been for my cat since returning, I think my mood would be through the floor right now. Samkitten hasn't left my side since I returned and rarely goes out (although being a cat the ground is probably a little bit chilly on his paws). I love my cat. I need to find him a rural home in the UK with one of my friends or I will miss him so much. He's got his winter coat now which is really useful for mopping up my snotty nose and streaming tears at the moment.
Showing posts with label Swiss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Swiss. Show all posts
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Raffia work anyone?
I am in the Day Clinic in the nearest town a week early because mysteriously a space became available after Dr I.S. made a phone call (after all, he is the boss). I kind of new what to expect but it's day 4 and already I've had traumas.
Day 1 was fine, I was 10 minutes late (there's a surprise, who can't read a timetable?) and I interrupted the Monday morning review of the weekend but everyone was very welcoming. I was assigned a "buddy" to help me settle in. One of the patients is from the village where I live and we have followed that code used between us mentalists not to let on to other people that we are both a bit crazy. We had kind of movement therapy in the morning and I can't remember much about the afternoon except for DBT stuff and then I had my appointment with Dr B. He is nice but I missing my psychiatrist already and am a bit distrusting of new people. I tried my best with the German but was nervous and the word order came out wrong. Got home and started rereading all the German words I had forgotten from before which describe feeling crap.
Day 2 also good. We were allowed to play with clay (yippee my favourite!) and so I made an ashtray. Actually, all the smokers were making an ashtray - if you ever need one just go to Psychiatric daycare, there are plenty. Tuesday afternoons is a games afternoon. I usually kick ass at "Uno" but have rapidly discovered that there are people out their with way better tactics than me. Trivial Pursuit - forget it. I think if I could read the question it might have helped me but the answers were impossible anyway, all swiss history and the like. anyhoo, bowed out but listened intently. End of afternoon coffee break was loud, raucous and I was feeling really tired from concentrating by then, as I always am whatever I am doing.
Day 3 (yesterday) - Not good. Morning I was given the task of drawing how I feel. I won't describe it here, would take too long to explain, but it kept my mind occupied for a good couple of hours. I needed to be kept occupied because I was already anxious from the day before about the meeting which we all have with Psychiatrist/Psycologists/therapists etc. Oh hell, lets just add in the cleaner, the gardener, the prostitutes from next door etc. as when I say the above, I mean a meeting with 5 (or was it 6? Too many to count) personnel in the room. I had to go in, show my half finished picture and then ask questions or be asked questions. Like, no pressure or anything (note sarcasm). Of course, my head then went into overdrive and I could hardly put an english sentence together let alone a german one and for some reason became horribly embarassed of the fact that I would be speaking German in front of my Psychiatrist. Bet they're laughing at me behind my back. It was HORRIBLE. And we do this every week. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Then, my bresprechsperson and I had a meeting and basically he brought up the following issues:
1. Was my german good enough, because I hadnt spoken german in the torture room. (I think it's good enough and certainly not brilliant, even worse when I am put in a situation way out of my comfort zone.)
2. Did I worry about people taking the piss or going on about how an auslander should know the language by now etc. etc. etc. (Not really, when you have been purposefully tripped up by a work "colleague" with a full tray of drinks, the same person who ignores you every day and basically tries anything to point out you don't belong here, I am so over it. This is a whole other rant I could go on, but it's not for here. I mean, I'm not saying it doesn't upset me sometimes, if I am upset then everything will upset me, but if I was going to find it a big problem then why on earth would I have said yes to going to the tagesklinik. Maybe I should stay at home cutting myself and staying in bed all day. Maybe they are trying to tell me that I don't belong. But it was like, all right, enough already! And now I have that obsessive thought that people don't like me, that people don't want me to belong and that it would be better to get rid of me so that someone on the waiting list can go instead. Someone with perfect umlauts or something. Whatever. So now I want to speak even less because I am paranoid someone has said something.
Leaving post, got myself all in a tizz again.
Day 1 was fine, I was 10 minutes late (there's a surprise, who can't read a timetable?) and I interrupted the Monday morning review of the weekend but everyone was very welcoming. I was assigned a "buddy" to help me settle in. One of the patients is from the village where I live and we have followed that code used between us mentalists not to let on to other people that we are both a bit crazy. We had kind of movement therapy in the morning and I can't remember much about the afternoon except for DBT stuff and then I had my appointment with Dr B. He is nice but I missing my psychiatrist already and am a bit distrusting of new people. I tried my best with the German but was nervous and the word order came out wrong. Got home and started rereading all the German words I had forgotten from before which describe feeling crap.
Day 2 also good. We were allowed to play with clay (yippee my favourite!) and so I made an ashtray. Actually, all the smokers were making an ashtray - if you ever need one just go to Psychiatric daycare, there are plenty. Tuesday afternoons is a games afternoon. I usually kick ass at "Uno" but have rapidly discovered that there are people out their with way better tactics than me. Trivial Pursuit - forget it. I think if I could read the question it might have helped me but the answers were impossible anyway, all swiss history and the like. anyhoo, bowed out but listened intently. End of afternoon coffee break was loud, raucous and I was feeling really tired from concentrating by then, as I always am whatever I am doing.
Day 3 (yesterday) - Not good. Morning I was given the task of drawing how I feel. I won't describe it here, would take too long to explain, but it kept my mind occupied for a good couple of hours. I needed to be kept occupied because I was already anxious from the day before about the meeting which we all have with Psychiatrist/Psycologists/therapists etc. Oh hell, lets just add in the cleaner, the gardener, the prostitutes from next door etc. as when I say the above, I mean a meeting with 5 (or was it 6? Too many to count) personnel in the room. I had to go in, show my half finished picture and then ask questions or be asked questions. Like, no pressure or anything (note sarcasm). Of course, my head then went into overdrive and I could hardly put an english sentence together let alone a german one and for some reason became horribly embarassed of the fact that I would be speaking German in front of my Psychiatrist. Bet they're laughing at me behind my back. It was HORRIBLE. And we do this every week. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Then, my bresprechsperson and I had a meeting and basically he brought up the following issues:
1. Was my german good enough, because I hadnt spoken german in the torture room. (I think it's good enough and certainly not brilliant, even worse when I am put in a situation way out of my comfort zone.)
2. Did I worry about people taking the piss or going on about how an auslander should know the language by now etc. etc. etc. (Not really, when you have been purposefully tripped up by a work "colleague" with a full tray of drinks, the same person who ignores you every day and basically tries anything to point out you don't belong here, I am so over it. This is a whole other rant I could go on, but it's not for here. I mean, I'm not saying it doesn't upset me sometimes, if I am upset then everything will upset me, but if I was going to find it a big problem then why on earth would I have said yes to going to the tagesklinik. Maybe I should stay at home cutting myself and staying in bed all day. Maybe they are trying to tell me that I don't belong. But it was like, all right, enough already! And now I have that obsessive thought that people don't like me, that people don't want me to belong and that it would be better to get rid of me so that someone on the waiting list can go instead. Someone with perfect umlauts or something. Whatever. So now I want to speak even less because I am paranoid someone has said something.
Leaving post, got myself all in a tizz again.
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, 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.
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