Day 1 - in hell

Wednesday. The first morning at the psych unit. They wake you up at 7.30 a.m., no matter if you have slept during the night or not. They want you to sleep and gather your strength but at the same time they want you to get routines. Well, getting up that early has never been and will never be my routine. I was a wreck. I talked to my husband on the phone who told me that he wouln't come and visit me that day. He needed some distance. That was quite a shock for me because he has never missed a day to visit me when I was at the hospital before. I was shattered. You know, him having his freak out and screaming and shouting, threatening to leave me kind of drove me over the edge. I get that my illness has a negative effect on him and that it's dragging him down. I get that he was afraid. But that doesn't give him the right to push me down mentally, to make it worse. And I had by then realized that he is the only thing in the world I'm still fighting for. The last few years I haven't been fighting for myself, I have been fighting for not making him upset. I love him and I don't want him to suffer. When he told me that he couldn't take it anymore, I just snapped. I felt like it would be the best solution to disappear. I felt like that I was a burden and that it would be best for everyone involved if I just died. It was just the final drop to my misery. So that he didn't want to come and visit me was really difficult for me. I understood that he needed some time for himself but I needed support as well. He has had a fucked-up life and still hasn't dealt with a lot of things so I understand that he has difficulties dealing with the present because of that. I just had hoped that he would understand that I needed support. Or maybe it was egoistic of me to think that I was suffering the most in the whole situtation.

They didn't have my Vitamin D-pills which I thought was a tad unprofessional. It's no big deal if you skip them one day but come on, I'm at a hospital, you should have medications. I ate half a sandwich which I threw up because I was so anxious. I spent the morning in bed, watching Dexter. I took a short nap. Then I had a meeting with the chief psychiatrist, a nurse and an intern psychiatrist. I had had met him before, J, the chief. We just never got along because he didn't get me. He is not Swedish so in the beginning I thought it was the language. He has a bad accent but his grammar is correct so I don't think it's the language. He is known to be tough and mean. I know of people who actually officially complained about him. I know of people who refuse to be in the same unit as him. But I had no choice, he is the chief of the unit and he was the one treating me. There is one thing that I like about him, he is straight forward. And he asks things, he discusses things, he is a bit like a therapist in that. His answers are never empathetic though. He understood that I was in a bad state but he decided that I should be send home on Friday. I told him that I'm not sure if I'll be alright until then but he had already decided that that was the treatment-plan: let me stay for two more nights and then send me home. I asked him about the restless legs and spasms but he said he didn't want to give me anything for that and he even doubted it was the Propavan that had caused it. He told me to try out that blood pressure med I had gotten prescribed instead. Then he asked why I had gained so much weight since we last saw each other. I told him that I have been diagnosed with hypothyrodism and he answered that it can't be only that. Well, thank you asshole. And then he told me that he wants to tell me something, kind of off the record. He told me that he had met me a few times now and that he doesn't get anything from me, he doesn't feel anything from me. He said that I don't have a personality!!! Who says something like that to a person that is suicidal and already hates herself?!? I didn't even know what to reply. I was stunned. So we shook hands and I went back to my bed.

I couldn't get his words out of my head. They haunted me. If I don't have a personality, I can't be human, I must be like an empty shell. R, my absolute favourite nurse, had heard that I was at the other unit and came over for a minute to give me a hug. It felt really good to see a friendly face. The one nurse that was responsible for me is actually someone I know, she is a friend of some friends of mine. We had never talked but we had been to the same clubs and parties. But as I thought the law prevents her from telling anyone about me, I didn't really care if she was my nurse or not. 

Then I had another major breakdown. I tried to strangle myself with the cable for my netbook and lost consciousness for a second. Another patient found me on my bed but I told her not to tell anyone. I was afraid I was going to be restrained. So I just sat on the bed, crying, shaking, having lots of anxiety. I went to the bathroom and I found a needle on the floor there. One of the women that I shared the room with was a muslim and I think the needle came from her head-cloth, I saw her attach it to another cloth underneath with needles. So I self-harmed in the bathroom. I went back to bed and on the way there my legs gave in. My legs were just so weak from the spasms and the restlessness. I crawled back to bed. And cried. I could have gone out and asked for help. The thing is that I didn't want to bother anyone. I didn't know anyone who was working. I felt like I had no right anyway, I felt like I wasn't human and just didn't have the same rights as others. Eventually I asked one of the women who I shared the room with to fetch someone. A nurse came, we went outside to some sofa to talk. She was really terrible at her job. I was crying, sobbing, telling her about how I wanted to die and how I just couldn't take it anymore. And what did she say? "Yeah, I can't solve your problems". What kind of an answer is that? So I asked for a sedative because I just wanted it all to go away, I wanted my head to shut the heck up. And guess what, they had forgotten to sign off my pills again so they couldn't give me anything! WHAT THE FUCK? How unprofessional can they be? They had to contact an on call psychiatrist again. In the meantime I was freaking out. I talked to one of the other patients for a minute or so and decided to just leave. I put my shoes and my jacket on, my cellphone and my cigarettes in my pockets and wanted to just leave. I had a 5 now, I knew that J had changed that. So I had the right to leave. But they didn't let me. This one male nurse refused to let me out. He said that he can't trust me because of the state I am in. I honestly didn't know what my plan was anyway. Just to get out of there? And then what? Kill myself? Go home? I really hadn't thought that through.

So I ran back to my room and hid under my blanket. The other patient said "I told you they wouldn't let you out!" and I was just crying. After an hour I finally got a sedative. And all of the sudden I got a lot of attention. I wasn't alone for the next several hours for a second, there was always a nurse checking up on me, trying to talk to me. I got forced to eat some dinner, I had some bites and threw it up again. I was such a wreck. But eventually I calmed down. The sedative helped a bit. One of the women in our room got discharged so we were only three women that night. The muslim woman slept all the time. I talked a lot with the other woman, a Finnish woman who was constantly knitting clothes for her grandchildren. She told me that I should take care of myself in the first place and not let my husband oppress me. He can't blame his behaviour on me. We also talked about meds and other things. You know, when you are at a psych unit, all people talk about are meds, suicide, good and bad psychiatrists and so on. Weirdly enough, she had met all the doctors I had met and had the same opinions about them as I have.

I could fall asleep that night but I woke up after two hours again, took another sedative, cried some more. My legs were driving me crazy and I could barely make it to the smoker's cubicle. Another terrible night. That was my first day at the psych unit.

How and why I ended up at the hospital ...

So about two weeks ago I really hit rock bottom. I had been in a depressive period for some time. I had had difficulties with my daily routines, with eating, with my sleep, with my studies, with getting out of bed at all. I had been aware of that, really aware. But I just couldn't do anything about it. I tried to fight on with simple things, trying to do positive things. But life just happened and a lot of things stressed me out at the same time. I maybe could have handled the depression, I maybe could have handled the problems. But I couldn't handle both. I had had some meetings with my therapist, even had a meeting with him and a psychiatrist. I had called the ER twice. I didn't want to end up in the hospital. But at the same time I just really wanted to die. The suicide thoughts were in my head all the time. I was in a very desperate mood. I planned, I tried to ignore the thoughts, I wrote goodbye-notes, I burned them. It was all just a huge mess. And I self-harmed. I'm not a self-harmer, it has happened four or five times that I cut myself. All the times before I could actually blame meds, they made me worse and drove me to self-harm. But this time it was ME, I had so much self-hatred inside of me. I hated myself for not being brave enough to kill myself. I hated myself for dragging everyone around me down. I was disgusted by myself.

Tuesday. I was in a bad state because of four reasons: 1. The depression had stolen my ability to sleep. I hadn't eaten in two days. I was sad, so sad. I was anxious and restless. 2. My legs were still driving me crazy, the restlessness, the spasms. I couldn't take it anymore. I coud barely walk. I felt handicapped and so over with this feeling. 3. I had disappointed my mum because I had cancelled on her and my sister for Christmas. They were supposed to come and visit us (I live in Sweden, they live in Germany) but I felt like I was in such a bad state, I couldn't have them at my home for a week. At that point I didn't actually care about Christmas. I wasn't even sure I was going to live until Christmas. 4. The day before had been a horrible horrible day. My husband had a total freak out because of how I was doing. He basically screamed at me for hours. He threatened me with kicking me out, with sending me back to Germany, with leaving me, with getting me sectioned. And he made it very clear that he was doing badly because of how I let myself go. He just couldn't take it anymore. I hid in the bathroom for a time, locked myself in. I can't handle conflicts, I get really scared. And all that screaming and threatening scared the hell out of me. I had a really bad breakdown in the evening. I was close to killing myself. I had already kissed the cats goodbye. I wanted to go down to the lake and drown myself. I was so desperate. But I didn't do it, I instead self-harmed the worst I have ever self-harmed. Now I hope that the scars will go away, I don't want to be scarred for life! My husband called the ER and they booked in an appointment with the same ER-psychiatrist I had met before, and my therapist, the next day.

Tuesday morning I was a mess. I couldn't get out of bed because of the spasms. I was crying because I had so much anxiety. And at the same time I was really apathetic. I just didn't care anymore. The appointment was weird. I wasn't really there, you know, my mind was blurred, I was absent in my mind. I remember my therapist saying that he wants to refer me to another clinic for MBT-therapy. And all I thought was: great, he has given up on me too, he must hate me, I must be such an annoyance, I really should just disappear. The psychiatrist and my therapist asked me lots of questions but I'm not sure if I even was able to form a sentence. They realized that I had self-harmed and as I looked like shit, they probably understood that I was a mess. So the doctor gave me an ultimatum: either I promise that I won't kill myself until the end of this year or I'll voluntarily admit myself to the hospital. I tried to get out of it as I didn't like any of the options but he said that's it, no other options. So I had to choose the hospital. I couldn't promise anything. I somehow believe that I saved my life in that moment. It wasn't me who had booked the appointment, my husband had, he had driven me there, without him I would be dead. But I could have lied and promised things. But I didn't, I chose the hospital. My "weird" therapist told me that he didn't want to meet me while I was admitted although that's what everyone usually suggests, that you meet your therapist for support while being at the hospital. I really don't know why he is treating me like this?!? It almost feels like he is trying to punish me for being a difficult patient. I so need to discuss this with him, maybe I should switch therapists.

I had to wait in the waitingroom for almost an hour (under the supervision of the receptionist) while the psychiatrist got in touch with the hospital and tried to find a bed for me. When he finally came to meet me again, he told me that I was going to be at a unit I had never been at. I was in tears. I have social anxiety, I can't deal with new places and people well. The only person I knew was the chief of the unit because he used to work at the other unit I usually end up at. And we don't get along, he just never got me So I didn't want to go. But really, I had no choice. I could have lived with the usual unit, where my favourite nurse, R, works. He had always been able to pull me out of the shit. He is basically the best nurse you could meet. I love that man! But nope, I was now going to a unit I had never been at, with staff I didn't know, and no R. I was allowed to go home and pack a bag. And about two hours later I rang the bell of the unit.

The unit is locked which means that there are two double doors which are locked. And only the nurses have keys. There are five different numbers you can get: 1 - not allowed to go out and constant supervision 2 - not allowed to go out and regular supervision  3 - not allowed to go out on your own, only with staff  4 - only allowed to go out with staff or family 5 - allowed to go out but you have to tell them where you are going and when you will be back. 

There is a smoker's cubicle, a small kitchen, a dining room, a TV-room, a nurse's office, a nurse's kitchen and room, lots of chairs and sofas, four conversation-rooms, an examination-room. And the patients' rooms. There are no single rooms (well, unless you need constant supervision, then you sometimes have a room for yourself). There are two four beds rooms and the rest are two beds rooms. Each room has a bathroom. It's a mixed unit, men and women, 18+. It's a unit for depression, anxiety, personality disorders and suicidal patients. 

A nurse picked me and my husband up at the door and I was placed in a four beds room. Luckily I had one of the beds behind the blinds. All other three beds had patients in them. I talked to the nurse who told me that the psychiatrist from the clinic had forgotten to sign off my meds or write something at all in my journal. So I had to wait and meet an on call psychiatrist so I could get my meds and get assessed again. What the heck?!? I needed a sedative so bad. I talked a bit to one nurse and my husband stayed until 8 p.m.. They tried to convince me to eat something but I didn't want to. Four (!!!!) hours later I finally met that psychiatrist and I had to tell my whole story because he hadn't had time to read my journal. He gave me a physical (he couldn't find me pulse first, and I had high blood-pressure due to my anxiety) and signed me in properly. I got a 3 and all my meds got listed and allowed. I watched an episode of Dexter (I had my netbook with me and they have wifi) and at around 1 a.m I took my Zoplicone and tried to sleep. That didn't work at all. At 2 a.m I had a bad breakdown, talked to a nurse for an hour, cried, cried, cried, got desperate, wanted to leave, cried some more, had bad spasms and restless legs, smoked at least 5 cigarettes, cried some more, talked some more, tried to sleep again, had a hot chocolate, cried again, telling them to just leave me alone and let me die. In all of this I tried to not disturb the other patients. I was sitting on a chair, close to the outter doors, as far away from the patients' rooms as possible. They convinced me to take a sedative and around  5 a.m. I finally fell asleep. So those were my first few hours at the psych unit.

Looney bin - how the system works in Sweden

Before I tell you about what actually happenened, how I ended up in hospital and how my time there was, let me explain the Swedish system a bit. There are no mental hospitals in Sweden, unless you are talking about forensic psychiatry. There are facilities for mentally ill criminals who are too ill to be in prison. In some of these hospitals they also keep severe cases of the mentally ill, self-harmers, people who have tried to kill themselves too many times. It's kind of the final destination for the people the system has given up on. It's actually quite a disgrace that they keep self-harming women in the same facilities as schizophrenic murderers. There have been a lot of debates about that in Sweden this year because these young women are treated badly and as it all happens behind closed doors, no one really knows what's going on. So that's the only kind of "proper" mental hospitals there are in Sweden.

They closed down all asylums in the 1990s and let everyone who had been in there out. Yes, they released all mental patients at once from all mental hospitals. Crazy, eh? So since then there is polyclinic and inpatient care. At the polyclinic you meet therapists, doctors and nurses and it's basically built up like a GP's office. Well, apart from all the security, they have lots of codes and locked doors there. The receptionists are bhind glass. I guess some mental patients can get quite agressive so it's good to be precautionary. So that's where you get therapy and have meetings with psychiatrists. They are often huge places, where I go they have around 30 therapists and 10 psychiatrists. They have an emergency number, an emergency pschiatrist and an emergency team to come and visit you. They are only avaiable until 10 p.m.. Mind you, not all polyclinics have that. You go there voluntarily but I also know of people who are forced to attend therapy because they have antisocial personality disorder.

The contact you have with the professionals isn't really personal. I get therapy 45 minutes a week and meet a psychiatrist maybe once every six months. You don't get the number to your psychiatrist and you are only allowed to call your therapist when you are in crisis. They have many patients so they really don't have the time to put a lot of energy into one case. They have time-guidelines to follow, it's all quite capitalistic. Like, CBT is only 12 weeks, then you are supposed to be "cured". Another thing is that most of these polyclinics are owned by private companies now, not by the state. So it's really all about money and efficiency. That's something we have the right-wing government to thank for.

Then there is inpatient care. As there aren't any mental hospitals, the psych units are in normal hospitals. How many units there are is really based upon how big the hospital is and where in the country you are living. The hospital I've been at is the biggest one in the country and it's in Stockholm. So they have 9 units (I think). There is one for intensive care, two for general care, two for psychotic patients and two for affective patients (bipolar, manic). Each unit holds around 25 patients (I think officially there is only place for 20 but they try to "make place" by putting two beds into a one-bed room). The intense care is mostly for violent patients. There is one hospital in Stockholm who has a psychiatric emergency room which is huge and they are open 24/7. You always run into high addicts there which I find quite uncomfortable.

So how do you end up in inpatient care? The most common reason is that you have been sent there by your polyclinic. You will have to have met a psychiatrist who assessed you. They will fix a place for you if they feel there is a  need for that. Then there is the ambulance but they always take you to the huge psych ER which means many hours of waiting with addicts and psychotic patients. And then there is the possibility to call a special crisis number. They will tell you to come in and get assessed by a psychiatrist. I have done that a few times. Well, I didn't call, my man did and they told me to come in. That's how I got admitted the first time ever.

And there's voluntary and involuntary treatment. Either you seek help or they section you. There are quite strong laws when it comes to sectioning but if you had been sectioned once, it is easier to section you again. Bascially, you have to have serious mental illness, you need to be a danger to yourself or others and you need to refuse to get admitted. I have always been at the inpatient care voluntarily. But it's not easy to get in in the first place. A depression won't do it. A panic attack won't do. You need to have hit rock bottom, you need to be a milimeter from suicide. Oh, and after a suicide attempt you always get sectioned.

So that's what the system looks like in Sweden. I just thought I'd explain all that before I'll tell the story of my last visit to the psych unit.

Back from the hospital ...

I ended up at the hospital. I had been fighting so hard for not getting there because I had felt like that there is no help there for me. Honestly, I think I somehow have post-traumatic stress from the last times I had been there. And it felt like a huge failure, that I couldn't take care of myself anymore, that I caused trouble, that my life had gotten out of hand that much again. I have been at the psychiatric unit (closed ward) seven times so far. And I can tell you, it's no fun. Someone on Twitter actually asked me to describe the closed ward, what it is like there, what the days are like. I will write some posts about that later today. Maybe they can help some people to get over the fear of ending up there, and maybe it will teach some people that you can't always trust professionals. And honesty, I think my stories will teach about the importance of honesty if you are in a position that involves life and death situations.

I got in the hospital on Tusday evening and I was "released" yesterday morning. I was there voluntarily.And I hated every minute of it. But I must say that the few days there probably saved my life. I can't say that I'm doing much better now, I never do when coming home from the hospital. I'm kind of still in my hospital-mode, I am trying to work through the experiences I have had there. I'm also relieved because I don't have people around me all the time.

The whole crisis has destroyed quite a lot of things for me. My relationship with my husband has a huge crack right now. My mum and I barely speak. I'm terribly behind with my studies. And have I gotten help? I don't think I'm critically suicidal at the moment. But my mindset is still the same. I still don't sleep enough. I don't eat properly (I forget ...). And I'm now even quite unsure when it comes to the psych-help I'm getting. 

But it's Christmas now and I guess I should get into a Christmas-mood. In Sweden we celebrate Christmas Eve big, that's when you eat the big meals and get the gifts. That's today. I hate Christmas. I have always hated Christmas. In my family Christmas meant being supertensed. My dad always freaked out eventually and you didn't want to be the person in his way at that moment. This year I'll just be at home with my man. We have a few gifts to exchange and we have bought some yummy food. I'll try to be on my "best behaviour" today. That means: no crying, no showing of anxiety, no whining and no desperate attempts to end my life or hurt myself. I want my man to feel safe and happy. I want him to enjoy this day. So I'll take a step back and do whatever I can today. I have a huge fear of getting send back to the hospital. This is what has always happened, I come home from the hospital and a few days later I am back there. I think my strong aversion towards being locked up makes me take hasty decisions and I get home too early. Not this time, this time I'll not get there again. No no no. 

Anyway, Merry Christmas everyone! And if you don't celebrate Christmas, have a few awesome days off from work/school/every day life. Happy Holidays!

I've lost control again

Yeah, it has taken me yet another month to update my blog. I think it's a good thing because I would have only caused confusion if I had tried to describe my state of my mind. I actually have trouble grasping my state of mind right now. I don't know where I am in my life, where I am in my head, whether I'm dead or alive.

The last few weeks have been a path into total darkness. I don't know why it hit me, I don't know what exactly has dragged me down. Is there always a reason? People tend to ask what has happened if you tell them that you are feeling bad. But there isn't always a cause- and effect-relationship that is obvious. There have been things that have immensly influenced me during the last few months and I guess they contributed to me slowly giving up on life. I always know that I'm close to the abyss when I don't want to fight anymore, when there is no will. I have difficulties when it comes to changes anyway. But when I'm really down, I don't want to change anything, the only change I want is to make it stop. I have lost my will to fight and my will to live. The last few months I have been fighting like crazy but how do you keep on fighting against a shadow that is slowly dragging you into hell? How do you see the light? I don't know.

The restless legs and spasms hadn't been getting any better so I eventually called the emergency number of the psych-center I'm going to because my mental health was in a really bad state because of that stupid Propavan-withdrawal. I had to wait for a week for an appointment with an emergency-psychiatrist who works at the center. I wish he was my regular psychiatrist because he was the kind of professionel who had definitely chosen the right job. He took his time for me, we discussed everything for an hour. He asked tons of questions. He took me seriously (!) and prescribed some meds for the akathasia (he thinks that's what I have). He also told me to stop taking the Propavan altogether because it was obviously no good for me and that my brain wouldn't be able to recover if I was giving it more of the med. So I stopped taking the Propavan and I haven't taken it for more than two weeks now.

Then I got a bad cold. I was too scared to try out the med I had been prescribed because I had asthma and it is known to give asthma. I actually still haven't tried it out although my legs often drive me insane and I can't walk for a long time because my legs are really weak. Not taking the Propavan led to no sleep. The Zoplicone (other sleeping med I'm taking) stopped working on me. So I've had many many sleepless nights. Most nights I don't get more than three hours of sleep. Weirdly enough I'm not too tired in my body, but it is really making my head spin.

In all that I suddenly got really sad and desperate. It could be the restless legs and the lack of sleep. I also don't eat properly because the thyroid-hormone I'm taking is making me feel sick so my appetite is gone. I have lost quite a lot of weight actually. It's a lot of things contributing to this. I'm also stressed out by my studies, my boyfriend is in a bad depression right now, our car broke down. Just a lot of things happening. So I have given up the fight. I have constant anxiety. I'm crying a lot. I barely get out of bed. I have lost interest in everything. Like, my sister and mum are coming to visit us for a week on Christmas and I should be planning things. But I don't care.

So, as you might have guessed, this all led to me being really suicidal. Now, I haven't done a lot of suicide attempts in my life. I have always somehow gotten help before it got that far. So I personally hope that the risk for me doing something drastic is small. I have been talking about this with my therapist for the last two weeks. He has called me a lot, to check up on me. And he has been trying to get me in touch with a psychiatrist. He has been mentioning getting put into hospital which I'm totally against. I hate being at the hospital!!! But he really felt like that he needed some back up by a doctor.

The last week has been crazy for me. I self-harmed! That's not like me. But last week, three times. My arms look terrible and they sting! I had written goodbye-letters, planning my suicide, all the things one really shouldn't do. I triggered myself with a lot of things, reading up on stuff on the net. On Friday night I had to call the ER because I was totally out of my mind. It was 4 a.m., I hadn't been sleeping and I had spent two hours cleaning and brushing my shoes. If you take Zoplicone and you don't fall asleep on it, you can get really weird in your head. I got the worst help ever: "Take a sedative. Good luck. Bye!" Huh? 

Today I had an appointment with my therapist and a psychiatrist, the same one I have seen just three weeks ago. Before the meeting I had been really scared that they would admit me to the hospital. I was convinced that that was going to happen. I even had a bag packed. But nope. This doc is just amazing. He first told me that he would never section me which made me feel so safe. We discussed what has been going on and well, he said that the most important thing right now is that I get sleep. So I'll have to take Atarax for a week or so before going to bed, together with the Zoplicone. I hate Atarax, it really makes me sleepy, never helped for my anxiety and I get a terrible hangover from it. But what to do? And then he told me that I'm the one in control, I'm the one to take decisions. I liked that. When it comes to psychiatric help, I often feel like I'm out of control, I am being played around with. I basically said I know that I'm in a really really bad state right now but that I don't think that the hospital is the right place for me. But I have also been honest and told him that I can't promise anything, that I can't say what I will and won't do. I also didn't want to promise to call or contact anyone. I hate to lie so I'm rather honest. But he was fine with it. He somehow trusts me. I don't know why. Why does he trust me when I don't even trust myself? Maybe he can see something I can't see?!? Really, I wish he was my regular psychiatrist.

I don't know how I'm doing. I'm scared. Scared of myself. I can't trust myself. The self-harming totally threw me off. This is not me. I've promised myself to take the Atarax and Zoplicone during the nights. Maybe that will make my head clearer. Because right now I really can't think straight. My mood and my thoughts are all over the place. But somehow I got a tiny bit of will back, a tiny bit of strength. I think it has a lot to do with Dr.E saying that I'm in control. I need to be in control.