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.
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