Unmitigated Disaster

(Or: Acute Inpatient, Take Two – Day Four)

Today was an absolute unmitigated disaster.

Let’s contextualise. I asked my mother to make some difficult phone calls, starting with the head of the care coordinator team, to more or less fire my current care coordinator, discuss when Complex Needs will get back to me, and ask about interim care.

Meanwhile: my care coordinator arrives. Is very sweet and caring but absolutely ineffectual. Learned some interesting things though.

I later have a meeting with the consultant psychiatrist. The same one who reduced me to tears last week. I was told that I would be discharged on Wednesday, REGARDLESS of whether or not I felt safe enough to do so. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would not be here long, and while it may get reassessed, I’m out of here come Wednesday.

This did not go down well. I started crying.

To add insult to injury: I am told there is a patient who is very sick, and would I move wards. Where to, you ask? Why, to a low security OCD ward. I am not OCD. I’m suicidal. I say no. But it really does prove just how much they want to get rid of me.

My partner arrives, and I have a full blown dissociative seizure. Screaming, crying, convulsing, the works.

Now my timeline gets odd, because I was having a seizure. I was dragged across the ward, publicly, while screaming and convulsing. The consultant knew, and saw me, and thought it appropriate to do absolutely nothing. I was taken away from my partner who is experienced at helping me through them. I was left alone for an extension period of time and completely ignored. Battered myself extensively on the head and scratched my arm severely.

Meanwhile: my partner calls my mother. She calls the ward, and convinces them to let Sarah back. I have to get myself to a neutral room – again around the ward while hysterical – and she calms me down. I speak to an absolute wonder of a doctor who listens – bear in mind that I have no filters and I’m ridiculously upset – and get written up some lorazepam. I calm down. My partner calms me down. All is OK.

Except that it really fucking isn’t, at all.

I’m not upset about the discharge date, per se. I am ridiculously upset that nobody has been listening. I tell him I am suicidal and he still thinks it appropriate that I would leave so early, even if that hadn’t changed. So I am unsafe. Even when I thought I would be.

Random extraneous knowledge from today:

1) Despite multiple conversations to the contrary, I’m going to be assessed by the young group in Complex Needs (16-25) which we’d previously agreed would be entirely wrong for me.

2) The lead psychologist for Complex Needs is on leave for several weeks, so God knows when they will get around to assessing me.

3) There is a psychologist, somewhere, who is developing something for interim care before Complex Needs gets around to it.

4) My blood pressure is scarily low and nobody has done much about it.

5) My face cream hasn’t been written on my charts. I’m not allowed to use it. Problem ongoing. Argh.

6) I have asked at least a dozen times. But it appears that the Complex Needs team are the only people who can do Tier 4 referrals. That’s right. Everything I’ve fought for rests in Complex Needs.

If it weren’t for my family and fiancĂ©e I just don’t know what I would do. They have been extraordinary and continue to be. With them around, I know they will make things happen. They will get me there.

I’ll be OK.


Handling Dissociation

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Eight)

Not to sound too overbearingly pretentious, but my life has become a Dali painting. Everything’s blurring, dripping, and I have no sense of time.

This is probably not helped by my recent concerted efforts to revisit some of my old writing from, in some cases, a decade or so ago. I have stories and ideas that have been dormant on my computer for years and years, and in a strange, morbid and sometimes slightly masochistic manner I have been going back to those stories and finding words from somebody I don’t recognise.

It’s cathartic, in a sense. My memory is a sketchy thing at the best of times, and I don’t really enjoy looking back at myself as a human being in that time. If I do, I get caught up in the bad things – my rampant eating disorder, my school life, my loneliness, my hatred – and forget the fun bits. I like looking at stuff I created because it doesn’t have the bad bits attached in the same way. A lot of it is just my own, things I’ve shown nobody or have been anonymous, and so it stays somehow separate.

In any case, I’m appreciating the necessity of grounding. Music and scent are two very strong physical ways to tether me back to normal life, especially when dissociating, so using that in abundance. I won’t go back to inpatient. I just won’t.


(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Seven)

I’m losing time. Just little things, little bits, but I can feel it. It’s usually the harbinger of worse things to come, but I’m going to remain optimistic because why the fuck not. Maybe I’ll be okay. Just a few days of weirdness and I’ll return back to normal. My mental health re-stabilises and I become a fully-functional human.

Or, you know, a few weeks pass and I wind up back in acute inpatient.


(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Six)

I feel like I’m floating through time. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I’m partly just heavily dissociating. Everything is blurry in some way, out of my grasp, and I sit to write and don’t remember the day that I’ve just had. Concentration is difficult. I don’t want to leave the house very much, but also can’t bring myself to care when I leave – my partner makes me leave, we have a number of things organised, and I do what I have to. I don’t have much impetus to argue.

Still no word or developments mental health wise. Group tomorrow morning.

I don’t know any more, I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Going Backwards (lucky me)

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Two)

At my worst, I experience dissociative seizures. These are the bastard child of a panic attack, and an epileptic seizure. I dissociate heavily, spasm, scream, cry. It’s a nightmare. Haven’t had one in a couple of months…

… until last night.

They’re back.

So overall, understandably, I feel like my health is going backwards rather than forwards. I sent a strongly-worded email to my care co-ordinator today (Sunday, so will be actioned tomorrow) expressing everything that is currently wrong and detailing the places I wish to be referred to. I am out of patience, and I’m running out of time. I fear that without stability, I’ll be back in an acute ward before too long, which I’d really rather avoid (for reasons why, see my earliest posts; acute inpatient was horrendous).