Stuck

Wow. I can't believe that it has taken me so long to get back in the mood for writing a blog-entry. I have the most lame excuse: I just can't get started with things these days, I can't focus and I basically lost all motivation. It could be a sign of depression or maybe it's just the fact that it's still winter and the lack of sunlight has drained me of energy. I think it's depression as I'm taking vitamin D - supplements and they should be helping me with lack of energy. It doesn't matter what the cause of my total indifference and concentration-issues is. Eh? Anyway, tonight I just thought I'd force myself to write a bit and hopefully it will put me in the mood for more things that I love doing. Or that I have planned. Or that I should be doing. So what has happened in my life during the last few weeks?

Mental health. I have had periods that were quite alright. But most of the time I have just felt dead inside. A huge feeling of indifference. Other days that indifference is replaced by mind-killing anxiety. Suicide thoughts come and go. Self-harm thoughts come and go. The worst is my lack of motivation. It has a lot to do with that I have given up. I don't believe I can get help for my mental health problems. I'm not in the state where I think that it can never get any better. I might have some okay-ish days. But I don't think I'll ever have any real capacity to make it out there in the world. I'll end up being dependent upon my husband, or the social services, maybe the health insurance. I feel like I'm incurable. It's not like I feel that I have it worse than others. It's just that I have tried everything, nothing worked. And I can't get bothered to try yet another med or therapy. So I have lot all interest in the future because I know I have a bleak future ahead of me. I have nothing to look forward to, no goals that I know I can reach. I'll spend the rest of my days in this apartment, in the evenings my husband will be here, I have my two cats but I'll basically be cut off from society, success, social life. And that's why I'm not motivated to do anything. Why bother? I have given up. A huge contributer to this state of mind is the fact that I have dropped out of therapy. Before anyone starts blaming me for my own situation, let me explain. I didn't really make the decision because I wanted to. My therapist, well, ex-therapist told me that we are not getting anywhere, that it is always about suicide-prevention and crisis-solving with me. He made feel guilty for being unstable. And that's what he literally said to me: You are not stable enough for therapy. I wanted to continue with therapy but he made me feel like I was taking up someone else's spot, someone who deserved it better than me. And not mention that it seemed to me like he didn't believe that I could be helped. Honestly, how can anyone be not stable enough for therapy!?! Isn't therapy there for making you stable and help you deal with your problems? So I dropped out of therapy because my therapist talked me into it. When I look at it now, I'm quite sure that he manipulated me into dropping out. Instead I was sent to see a counselor, just so I have some kind of psych-contact. I met that person once. She didn't know what to do with me. She told me that we can meet sometimes, just to talk. This really didn't seem like the greatest help in the world. So I feel stuck. If they ever think I'm stable enough to start therapy again, I'll be put on a waiting-list, a 5 months wait, at least. And honestly, I'm bipolar and I don't take any meds, how am I going to be stable for 5 months? I cancelled my last appointment with her. It just feels useless. I'm sure there are other people going through some life-crisis right now who need the time with her. So: no future, no proper help. Why fight if what I have right now is everything I'll ever get? Oh, and I have a new psychiatrist. A confused old lady. She must be around 70. She  had forgotten about our first appointment. She hadn't read my file and proposed all kinds of meds to me, and all of those I had already tried before (Seroquel, Lamictal, Prozac ....). She had also promised me to contact a neurologist about my legs. She forgot about that. I had to call her to ask her about it, over a month later, and she was like: oh, I must have forgotten. Yeah, right, maybe time to retire. So I doubt that she will be able to help me medical wise. I'll get prescriptions for Oxazepam and Zoplicone whenever I need it. I guess that's something.

Physical health. I have been very quite unlucky when it comes to my phsyical health as well. First off, I can be a bit of a hypochondriac. I think it has to do with my anxiety, my GAD. I notice every small problem I have, I give it too much attention and I get scared. And of course I always get scared that I might some serious illness that will lead to a slow and painful death. Like, they have tested my blood-sugar some weeks ago and it was a bit high. They thought it wasn't high enough to be diabetes and it could just be that I had eaten something beforehand. The same with my white blood-cells, they said that I had a few too many but it could just be a minor infection somewhere in my body. But in my head I have diabetes and incurable cancer. I am just a worrier I guess. So, almost four months after having being diagnosed with hypothyroidism I kind of thought that they should do another check-up, especially because I had been put on meds and I had no clue if they were working or not. The meds give me side-effects by the way: my skin got really bad, I have itches and I feel nausea. But I have had worse side-effects. So I called my GP's office and got told that she is taking a break from work (sounded more like she got suspended) and told me they'd tell another GP to get in touch with me. That other GP called me, I had to leave blood-samples and it turns out my hormone-levels are still bad. The "funny" thing is that I have never met that GP. Only spoken to him on the phone once. Did he give me an appointment so we can discuss the results? Did he at least call me? Nope. That idiot sent me a letter telling me that my levels are still bad and how to increase my meds. That person is supposed to be my GP! What the heck? I'm still fighting with restless legs and spasms. It has been six months now since this shit started. I have stopped taking the Propavan in the end of November for heaven's sake. But nope, I still suffer from it. In the beginning of January I couldn't take it anymore. So I went to the ER. I had to wait for 8 (!!!) hours and then got to meet a neurologist. She examined me and decided to prescribe Sifrol to me. That's a Parkinson-medication but it is known to help with restless legs too. Well, but my fear of meds and side-effects got the best of me. This medication has side-effects such as depression, impulsivity, anxiety, psychosis. Honestly, not the best medication for someone with mental illness. I have still been fighting with the restless legs and spams daily. Some days it is so bad that I'm just in bed crying. I just can't try the med, I don't trust meds anymore. I'm really sure that it won't help and that I will just get bad side-effects. The neurologist from the ER called me this week to ask me how it is going. And I just told her the truth, that I have a history of bad reactions to medications and that I'm too scared to take the med. So she wants to book in a scheduled stay at the hospital for me so I can be observed while starting with the med, in case I get any bad reactions. I don't know. I'm really thankful that she called and that she understands and that she wants to help. It kind of feels like I would take someone else's spot, some stroke-patient who needs to be put on meds, someone with MS that needs to get their meds changed. Sure, I suffer badly but it is not life-threatening. I don't know. She said it will take some weeks until I will hear from them so who knows, maybe the restless legs and spasms have disappeared until then. Okay, I know, that is unlikely. We'll see.

So there you go. This is what I have been fighting with lately. This isn't all to be honest. But it is late now, I want to go to bed. I'll write some more tomorrow.

The last morning ...

Monday. The last morning I spent at the pych unit. Because it was the day before Christmas we were allowed to sleep in. I was awake early though. All I wanted was to meet the psychiatrist so I could finally leave the unit. I packed my bags, took a shower, got my meds, had a cup of tea and smoked plenty of cigarettes. I wasn't home yet and I was afraid that something might go wrong.

I was fetched right before lunch. J told me that the intern psychiatrist, T, was going to hold the meeting. T is a really young and innocent looking doctor. He can't be older than maybe 25. And he had been following around J all week I was at the unit. He asked the usual questions: if I was suicidal, what my plans were, if I had any impulses. I told him that I wanted to be at home for Christmas and that I basically didn't want to be at the hospital anymore. It was kind of cute to see how he kept looking at J, for affirmation. They promised me once again that they had contacted a neurologist and that I'll most probably hear from that person after the holidays. Then they told me that I was always welcome back if I was getting any worse. Well, one thing is for sure, I will not get back to THAT unit. I felt so unwelcome there. The staff there was cold and didn't seem to care at all. There was no warmth at all and everyone was just minding their own business. More than once, when I asked for help, I was told to go and bother someone else. If I ever get to the point where I feel the need to be safe at a hospital, I will refuse to be admitted to that unit.. But let's hope that I'll never have to spent some time at a psych unit again.

I grabbed my bags, hugged my room-mate and went down and waited for my husband to fetch me. Such a relief! I came back home, sat on the bed and cried tears of relief. Being at a psych-unit is not a holiday. It often worsens your problems. And just because there is "professional" staff doesn't mean that you will always get help when you need it. Honestly, I am not even sure if it is a safe place. I found pins on the bathroom floor that I was able to self-harm with. I managed to almost strangle myself with a cable in the middle of the day, on my bed. But: you might be lucky to get to a place with one good soul, one person that loves their job, one person that you feel you can trust. That can make all the difference. And in whatever situation you are: don't ever trust professionals blindly or you might end up with ECT or bad side-effects from meds. I wish there were more good souls working at mental hospitals and psych wards. Sometimes it just feels like the perfect meeting-place for sadistic idiots.. But as I said: as long as there is one good person, you might get the warmth you need!

The weekend - almost at home

Saturday. On weekends the patients of the psych-unit are allowed to sleep as long as they want, or can. For me that meant 8 a.m.. Five hours of sleep was definitely more than I had gotten the nights before. I took a shower and made myself ready because I was allowed to stay at home on Saturday and Sunday. You know, before they let you leave the psych unit altogether, they let you test a night at home and see if you can handle being in the outside world amongst healthy people again. So even though I wasn't sent home on Friday as planned, I was supposed to spend two days and one night at home. 

I had a long chat with one of the nurses before I left. I had met that guy at another unit before and he is quite funny and loud. He gave me my meds for the day and we had a little argument because he didn't give me all the sedatives that are on my list. But it really didn't matter because I have all those meds at home as well anyway.

My husband came to fetch me and we went home. It always feels a bit weird to come home when you have been at the hospital. I was afraid that all my old feelings and impulses would catch up with me but they fortunately didn't. We wrote a grocery list for Christmas and my husband was really happy when I told him that I would follow with him to the supermarket. I can't stand shopping, my social anxiety always acts up in supermarkets. But it went well, we did A LOT of shopping and when we got home I was totally exhausted. I cuddled with my cats for some time and then took a nap.

The rest of the day was spent in front of the TV, watching movies and trying to feel safe at home. I actually got a good night's sleep in my own bed. When I woke up in the morning I knew that I wanted to be at home and not at the psych unit. That was kind of the moment when it turned for me, when I realized what I wanted something again, when I realized that I'm better and don't need to be at the hospital anymore. And then my legs started acting up and I was a total mess. I cried so much, I didn't know what to do. So I came back to the psych unit crying and told them that I needed to see a neurologist now! But nope, the nurse (no clue who she was, never had seen her before and she wasn't even wearing a name-tag) told me she could contact the on call psychiatrist but that's all. I took a sedative and waited. It only took an hour this time and a young doctor arrived. He, of course, couldn't help me. I had known that before but the nurse has insisted on calling him. All he could do was to write down a note in my file that I once again had been cryng out for help because of my restless legs. 

I just took another sedative and got a bit fuzzy in my head. My legs were still terrible but at least I wasn't as anxious. I even talked a bit with the other patients. You know, they had put up a plastic Christmas-tree at the unit and the tree was in silver. And about everyone was complaining about the colour of the tree. Yeah, Christmas at a psych-unit, can you imagine that? Poor souls!

The rest of the evening I spent studying Russian and chatting with my room-mate. I tend to get quite chatty from benzodiazipines. I think they make me let my guard down. So I might have just babbeled on and on and my room-mate was irritated. But in my head we were both chatting. Haha. I took my Zoplicone, watched some Dexter and fell asleep around 2 a.m..

Day two - still not better

Thursday. I woke up way too early but my restless legs and my anxiety didn't want to let me sleep anymore. I tried to read, listen to music, distract myself. I didn't want to be at the hospital. I felt like a total wreck and all I wanted was calm and peace in my body and my mind. My husband called me to let me know that his phone had died (he was at his sister's so he called from her phone) because my mum had been calling him all morning long to discuss how she should do with the Stockholm-trip. I didn't get it, I told her I didn't want her or my sister to come because I was in a really bad state. I was at the hospital, how did she think I could handle them visiting me? I really felt like it was a lack of respect. So I went on Skype and videochatted with my mum. I told her that she couldn't come, that my husband couldn't deal with it all either right now. It just wasn't the right time because our life was in chaos. She tried to explain to me that my sister and her really needed to get away from Germany. They were both really down because of the divorce and all the tension and intrigues in the family. I got that but I suggested that they could travel somewhere else. Anyway, she saw that I was doing like shit and basically just said that she will discuss it with my sister. I don't get why I had to be the one solving problems, I was in a bad state and I barely had any energy left to keep myself alive to begin with.

One staff-member convinced me to try and eat some lunch. So I went into the dining room, filled a glass with water and waited for my microwave-meal (yup, we are getting microwaved food at the hospital, at least they had a vegetarian option) to get ready. But then I got a really bad panic attack. I just ran out of the room. I couldn't be there and I most definitely couldn't eat with all the other patients. So no food for me. I had another breakdown after that. I tried to find someone to talk to but the staff was having lunch and I didn't want to disturb them. I saw one nurse that I knew from the unit, L, and asked him if he had a minute. I felt bad because I was sure that he was on his way to lunch but I needed someone to talk to. I just cried and cried, I was shaking and I was desperate. I just couldn't see how they were supposed to help me at that shitty unit, I wanted to be transferred to the other unit. I just couldn't see how anyone could help me with my problems at all. At the same time I was really afraid that I was going to be sent home the next day because J had decided that. I just wasn't stable enough to be at home. L went to talk to one of my contacts, the nurse who is friends with my friends. I waited for 15 minutes but no one came back so I went to my bed and just stared at the wall.

I eventually asked for a sedative because I started to lose it again. Th nurse told me that she couldn't do anything about switching units at the moment. In the early afternoon I had to switch rooms though because there were some new incoming patients. I came into a two beds room which was nice. There wasn't anyone in the other bed yet so I had a few hours for myself. I closed the door, hid under the blanket and waited for the sedative to do its thing. I tried to eat dinner. They had allowed me to eat a few minutes after everyone else so I wouldn't have to face another panic attack. I didn't eat much but at least something. 

My husband came and visited me in the afternoon/evening. Visiting hours are between 5 and 8 p.m.. As I didn't have a roommate yet we stayed in my room and talked about unimportant things. I didn't want to deal with our issues, I didn't want to know if he was going to leave me or not. I tried to be cheerful and I was really happy to see him. I tried one of those bloodpressure meds for my restlessness and spasms. It felt safer to have my husband around when I tried it. I'm just so scared of side-effects. It didn't help me and after an hour it almost felt like it has made it worse. I also got a bad asthma attack from it. So nope, that med wasn't working. It made really sad because I needed help with the restlessness and the spasms so bad!

My husband left at 7 and I decided to try and study a bit. I felt a bit calmer because of the sedative so I thought it would be good to try and do something productive. But I couldn't focus at all because of my legs and arms and then my new roommate arrived and my social anxiety set in. You know, I felt like I didn't want to disturb her so I tried to breathe as flat as possible, tried not to move around too much and to be as invisible as possible.

R, my favourite nurse from the other unit, came over later that evening. That was so damn nice of him! We hugged and I just told him what was going on and why I was at the hospital, how J had treated me again, my restless legs, my stupid therapist, the fight with my husband, the suicide thoughts. It all just came out of me like a waterfall. He listened and tried to calm me down. It was so good to see him, to be able to talk to him. He really makes me feel safe and calm and always reminds me of that I'm worth something. I don't know why, but he has high thoughts of me, he thinks I'm capable of a lot of things. And whenever he tells me that I somehow believe him. Every nurse should be like R!

A new patient had arrived, an autistic woman with her carer. She was really upset because, well, autistic people can't really deal with a change of enviroment. So she freaked out and threw fruit and chairs around. It was quite scary and some of the other patients got panic attacks and even one staff member started to panic and just left the unit saying "a person like that shouldn't be at a unit like ours". I somewhat agreed with her but honestly, where else should you put an autistic person with depression? So the whole unit was wide awake and many people were scared. I just felt sorry for the autistic woman!

I took a sedative later that evening because I just knew that I needed a proper night's sleep. My new roommate was really nice but I could see that she was doing like shit so I kept quiet. I just didn't want to bother her. I watched a few episodes of Dexter and had some hot chocolate. I talked to one nurse that I knew from the other unit, a lovely Polish lady who really loves her job. I took my sleepingpill. I couldn't fall asleep, I went to have a smoke a few times, I cursed my legs and watched another episode of Dexter. At around 2 a.m. I could finally close my eyes.

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. 

GAH!

I really don't want to complain about this anymore. But the restlessness in my legs and arms is driving me nuts. I'm somewhat in pain too because my all my muscles are tensed all the time. The spasms aren't getting any better either. What annoys me the most is that I have tried to get help for it and I have been refused. My (new) psychiatrist told me that she can't prescribe anything for physical issues, even if it's withdrawal-symptoms from meds I'm getting from her. My GP doesn't really take the problem seriously. Sure, she tested my blood for all sorts of things and found out that I have hypothyroidism and vitamin D-defiency. But that's not what's causing my restless legs or the spasms. I know it is Propavan-withdrawal. But she she didn't listen. She just told me that she was glad she didn't prescrible L-dopa to me. L-dopa is the most common med against restless legs in Sweden. It has tons of side-effects. But at this point I wouldn't care. Give me anything, give me fucking horseshit to chew on if it is known to help! So what are my options? Take a whole dosage of Propavan again and give up forever to ever get off the pill. Or get through it and hope for the best. At the moment I'm sticking with the second option. Logically and stastistically, it should get better after a while. When I went down from a whole pill to a 3/4-pill I got restless legs and spasms three weeks after that. It was really bad for two to three weeks and then it got a bit better. So I went down to half a pill about three weeks ago. So in about two to three weeks it might get better. That's what I need to focus on. If in one month from now it has gotten any better, I'll give up. I could talk to my GP again but really, I don't think she will listen. Restless legs is something old people have, she said. And she totally ignored my comments about the Propavan. Another thing I could do is take Oxazepam. It didn't help before and I don't think it would help much now. But it is muscle-relaxing and it could reduce the anxiety I'm getting from this. So maybe I should just turn to good old benzo. 

Despite the damn issues I'm struggling with, I have been a good girl during the last two days. On Thursday I finally applied for a new ID-card and passport. I have been avoiding this so much because of the photo that has to be taken. I hate getting my picture taken, it gives me lots of anxiety and my self-hate always reaches new levels when I see myself on a photo. And especially those small photos for ID-cards and passports tend to look hideous! So I went to the police station and got my photo taken. I just asked the woman if my eyes were open on the photo, she said yes, and I told her to take the photo. I didn't want to look at the photo properly because I knew it would break me. I paid the 750 SEK (fucking expensive!), let them scan my fingerprints and signed. So that's finally done. Now I'll have to wait for another week and I can fetch the ID-card and passport. After that I went to the library (well, we, my hubby was with me, I don't think I have left the apartment on my own for months) to return some books, then to the post office to fetch a package full of books, then to the pharmacy and then to the supermarket to buy lots of fruit. On the way back to the car my legs gave in! It was really crazy, I was so weak. It must have been panic plus the restless legs. I was all dizzy and weird and I thought I was going to faint. So my hubby had to help me back to the car. I'm so dam pathetic!

Yesterday morning someone had to come into our apartment to check the ventilation system. They do that every few years, the law says so. I hate having strange people in my apartment! And I hate when they tell you that they will come somewhere between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m.. This only builds up extra-anxiety. The doorbell rang at 8.30 a.m., a young guy. I had just gotten up and was stll in my PJs. Anxiety, shame, trying to explain myself why I'm not normal and already up and busy early in the morning. I finally got the ultrasound of my thyroid done. I had to go to a clinic some miles from where we live to get that done. It was terrible to be in the waitingroom for half an hour because my legs were driving me crazy, I was in panic because there were so many people around and I just didn't want to seem weird and move around my legs all the time. T E R R I B L E! I was close to dissociating. When they called my name I first didn't even get that they meant me. I changed my last name when I got married and I'm not used to that yet. So they scanned my thyroid and it looks fine. The doctor there was really nice but that didn't help me much. I was on my back and someone was pressing a scanner against my throat. I was in panic! Well, at least I don't have an enlarged thyroid. Then we went grocery shopping and even to a shopping center to check one of their home improvement stores because we need new curtains. And it happened again: I got all weak, my legs were like rubber, I could barely stand up on my own. I really think it must be a combination of the withdrawal and panic/anxiety. My legs must be weak from all the spasms and I can't just walk around for hours. 

Today I have been super-anxious because of the withdrawal. But I'm trying to ignore all the bad stuff. I'm trying to keep busy. I have gotten a reply from my professsor, he has read my paper and he gave me an A. So yay, first paper/exam passed. I'm satisfied with myself. Now I hope I have passed the Russian-exam as well. Today I have worked on a paper that has to be in a few days and I have learned Russian vocabularies by heart. Trying to keep busy. Trying so hard. But I think I'll soon be standing in front of my medicine cabinet, taking out an Oxazepam. The anxiety is bad. Suicide is always a last resort in my head. Not good.

I'm still alive, hello again

Hello! Remember me? I'm still alive. I just haven't been able to connect with myself, with my creative side. I couldn't type anything concerning my feelings or thoughts, I have been disconnected. I'm not too sure if I'm actually back, back in my head, back in my body. I have been an empty shell. It has just been weird. I didn't want to force myself to write something, I would have just gotten desperate and sad. But tonight I felt like I should give it a try. It's almost one a.m. and I probably should be going to bed. Soonish.

So much has happened. And at the same time I'm still in the same state of mind as I was in my last post. It has been going up and down. Right at this moment I'm just sad and I feel totally worthless. I have been thinking a lot about suicide during the last few days. And it really doesn't help that my husband seems to have fallen into a depression too. He is complaining a lot, whining a lot and he is often desperate, sad. He is discussing things that could happen, like his sister dying, or him dying, or me dying. And he doesn't hold it in like I often do. He is really talkactivre about it. I'm trying to listen and to just validate his feelings. I think we are dragging each other down these days. We had a good moment today though. We took a nap (yes, nap, no interpretation needed there) together this afternoon, hugging tightly. It was warm and cozy. Maybe that helped him a bit. 

I have gotten into therapy and I meet my therapist once or twice a week. He is alright. He is maybe a few years older than me and he seems to be a typical Swede. I totally confused him with my style and he asked me things like if I was a satanist, if I worship death, if I use my looks as an armour against others. I think he now gets what goth is and that I dress the way I do because I find it aesthetically appealing. I like that we are discussing things. That we are reflecting. He is both a CBT and a psychodynamic therapist. But we are doing psychodynamic therapy, just sometimes he is offering a CBT point of view. I think I will be able to understand myself better one day. I think this kind of therapy is right for me because it is about intellectualizing issues instead of actually trying to change them by action. I need to understand to be able to act.

I'm still trying to get off the Propavan. It is hell! But this time I'm determined. I'm down to half a pill now. For a few weeks I had had the worst restless legs. I was crying a lot about it. I talked to both my new psychiatrist (she is alright, just a bit condescending at times) and my GP about it. None of them wanted to give me some meds for it because I'm too sensitive to meds. Great. I don't think they even understood that it is a withdrawal-symptom. Idiots. During the last two days mys spasms have come back. This morning I have been  almost paralyzed in bed for two hours, my muscles were so stiff and I had small spasms all over my body. But it has gone away by itself before so I hope it will do the same this time. The restless legs are back too. They have started again the other, day after I had exercised. They are not only restless, they also hurt weirdly. Maybe it's some muscle pain from the spasms. Same with my arms. But this time, this time, I will stop taking the Propavan. I'm not giving up again. It can't get much worse. But honestly, I'm feeling really sorry for myself. Self-pity.

I met my GP because of the restless legs. She is a nervous Russian woman with a bad accent. I often don't understand what she is saying. But she seems to really to want get to the root of things. I had to leave blood and urine samples twice. And it turns out that I have major vitamin D defiency and I have hypothyroidism. Now I at least know why I am fat. Boohoo. My mental issues probably don't come from my thyroid-issues but they could have been worsened by it. They have checked my thyroid-levels a lot during the last three years and they were always alright. So I was quite shocked when I got told that my thyroid is messed up. For three weeks I have now taken a synthetic thyroid-hormone (levaxin). I don't feel much of a change. My energy-levels are fluctuating. I can go from hyperactive to dead tired within an hour, and then back to hyperactive again. I'm on the lowest dosage at the moment. I'll get a ultrasound of my thyroid done this week. I should have gotten it done last week but the office was closed when I got there. I'm also taking vitamin D supplements. I wish I hadn't PTSD and social anxiety. My mood swings could be the thyroid though. We'll see. So basically, my mind and my body are ill and messed up.

My university-studies are going alright. I'm trying. I have had two exams the last two weeks. I really hope that I'll pass. I'm trying so hard. Unfortunately I have not been able to stick to any routines. My sleep is messed up so I just can't get up early. But I'm studying a few hours every day. I'm so thankful that there is something like distance learning. 

Most of my student benefits have gone to our flat. We have renovated the kitchen, painted the walls and all that. We have bought new lamps for the all rooms, we have hung up 10 posters, we have bought small decorative items. So now our flat is all goth and cozy. I really like what we have done. There are still a few more things we need to get done but I'm totally broke now. And there is some part of our car that needs to be repaired (don't ask me what ...) and that will cost us 3000 SEK. I'm used to being broke so I really don't care too much. 

Today I met my friend T. She came over. She is also suffering from mental illness so we don't need to pretend in front of each other. She seemed a bit medicated. She is taking three antipsychotics these days, eight meds altogether. Poor girl. It was really good to meet her. She only stayed for two hours though. I think her social anxiety got too strong. This was the first time I have actually met a friend since February. And I'm really exhausted. Being social is exhausting. I just wish I had more strength. I miss many of my friends. At the same time I really don't want to meet anyone. 

So my life is still somewhat pathetic. I'm really pathetic. But I am trying. Really trying. 

Barely alive but trying hard

I have been staring at a blank page all day, trying to come up with something I can write about. I have somehow lost the motivation and inspiration to write. I even scribbled down some topics I could discuss on a piece of paper. I have just been incapable of writing something that makes sense. So now I'm giving this another go. And as you can see, I'm writing. That's progress!

I'm going through a very bad period right now. This is definitely the worst I have felt for many many months. First off, I feel alone and lonely. I don't often feel that way because I think that having a rich social life is really something that society tells us is normal. But that's not true, we all have different personalities and preferences. But you know, I have been telling myself that I'm alright on my own, only with my man and my cats. But M said something the other day that made me cry later. He said that whenever I have been out, met people, talked to people, I lighten up, I get happy. And I know that it's true. I love talking with others, discussing things, learning things from others. I love putting make-up  and decent clothes on and go out. I love it. But my social anxiety has gotten so strong that I kind of lost that part of me. And I don't feel like I can be bothered to get that part back. There is too much pain involved, too much anxiety. The thing that bothers me the most right now is that I haven't met a single friend for a proper date since March! I know, that sounds crazy but that's the truth! I have had lots of mates and a few closer friends but they have all given up on me. I don't even get messages on Facebook anymore. The only people I text with are my social worker and my boyfriend/husband/man/the guy I live with. The same with phone-calls. It's my own fault, people just gave up on me. I always declined meeting them, going to parties, going to clubs, going to exhibitions. But now I want out of this exile I have created and there is no way out! So I feel incredibly lonely and alone. I feel like I am not connected to other humans anymore. I don't exist.

Depression has hit me hard. I can see all the signs and I know I'm in a deep depression right now. My psychiatrist agrees with that. Last week I have been crying my eyes out every day. My body was still twitching from the Seroquel-withdrawal, I had restless legs and I was so sad, sad, sad and anxious. All I had on my mind was how I was going to kill myself. Has it gotten any better?!? I don't know. I feel detached from reality most of the time. I try to avoid spending the days in bed but it's difficult. I don't eat. I have no creativity in me, no inspiration, no motivation. The moment I wake up I wish it was evening again so I could go back to sleep. And there are moments when I have the strong urge to die, to just jump off the balcony. To walk to the subway-rails and lay down and wait for the train to come. But then I remember that I have responsibilities, that I can't just leave. So yeah, proper depression. I'm just trying to make the best out of it, small steps every day. Cooking. Reading. Writing. Taking a shower. And still, I'm crying. I don't want to. I don't have the strength. Why can't the ground under me just open up and swallow me?!?

I met my psychiatrist in the beginning of this week. We discussed the twitching/spasms/weak legs/stiff muscles. He checked my arms and hands and said that they were fine. He said it will eventually go away. I believe him. I have to believe him. It has actually gotten a lot better during the last two days. The only thing that is still utterly annoying me are my legs. Sometimes I just want to chop them off. I'm also trying to get off the Propavan again. I think the Propavan has a lot to do with my dopamine-levels being messed up. So he gave me some instructions and I'm following them now. I'll take a 3/4 pill for a month, then down to 1/2, then down to 1/4 and then stop taking it. And I'll take Zoplicone every night. It still works for me, after all those years, because I've not been taking it regularly. But now that I do, I'm worried it will stop working eventually. We'll see. I'm also supposed to take a Valium in the morning and one in the evening due to my increased anxiety, depression, suicidality and restless legs. But you know me, I'd rather not do that. So far I haven't taken a single pill. But I might need to do that. I'm not too sure if Valium works for me, the half pill I took some weeks ago didn't do shit. The whole pill I took gave me difficulties to breathe. I know that I'm stupid not following my doctor's advice. I don't know, maybe it's still the punishing myself thingy. I once got told that I'm using "not taking sedatives" as a way to self-harm. That might be true! Maybe I should just go back to the Oxazepam. I told my psychiatrist that I never want to try new psych-meds again. He said that all I have left is my own strength and therapy. And hospital every now and then. He actually said that, someone with my gravity of mental illness won't be able to stay away from hospital forever. I so didn't want to hear that. It was our last appointment before he quits. I'm supposed to call him next week, maybe I'll get some dopamine-pills. We hugged and wished each other good luck with our future endavours. 

I'm trying to stay positive. I cancelled on my social worker this week so I can just focus on finding some kind of strength. Next week my university-studies will start. I have already registered, I have looked at the lists for literature I need. I have read some introduction-texts. I know what will come, I have seen deadlines, topics and exams that I need to pass. I hope I can handle two courses at the same time. This weekend I'll spend on looking for books I need on the internet. I have checked my bank-account and I'll get my student-benefits next Monday. For the first time in 9 months I'll actually have money on my account. But that money is already spent in my head: new ID-card and passport, books, petrol, the paint for our kitchen. It doesn't matter. I can actually spend money! Next Tuesday I'll also have the first meeting concerning the psycho-dynamic therapy. They'll evaluate me. I'm really nervous about it. I hate having to make a good first impression. I'll probably just sit there, shake because of anxiety, move my restless legs and hope that I don't get a freak out and run off. I need this therapy. So things are going to happen next week. On Monday evening I'll have my first chat for the philosophy course. On Tuesday morning I'll meet the psychologist. On Wednesday the Russian course starts. I need to focus on those things. Change. I'll have totally new routines. This autumn things might finally get moving for me again. Take a pill or two. And breathe! (And chop off your legs!)

RESTLESS

My legs have been driving me crazy during the last few days. And the restlessness is also creating more anxiety because I'm getting nothing done at all. And I've been googling my issues so much just to find reassurance that it will go away soon. That everything will go back to my normal state of depression and anxiety. But all I have found are terrible stories about how it has even gotten worse for people! I have read on some more reliable websites that the "extrapyramidical" withdrawal-symptoms most likely stay in the body for up to four months. For some people they will never disappear. I have only taken the stupid Seroquel for a little more than three weeks, how can I suffer from this? I mean, the damn restlessness in my legs came about a week after I have stopped taking it. I also have a very tensed jaw all the time. And I'm too scared to only take the Propavan during the night because the one time I tried I had muscle-spams in my whole body which was really awful. So now I'm taking Zoplicone every night. Not good. I have read about people who have had muscle-spams and akathasia even years after having stopped with the Seroquel. They are bound to bed and their lives have been destroyed. And of course I'm now worried that that will happen to me too. But it hasn't gotten worse for me yet. This morning, for about two hours, I didn't have any restless legs at all. It has just started again.

So what to do? Should I wait it out? I have been trying to avoid sedatives because I just don't want to take them regularly. I'm just not someone who goes and takes a pill right away. My husband thinks that I should call my psychiatrist. But I feel like I have annoyed him enough already, called him twice two weeks ago. And I have an appointment with him in six days anyway. So what I have done is to write down a list of things I need help with. If the restlessness doesn't go away, I need some medication for that, at least for a short period of time. He will probably be really confused that I'm having these withdrawal-symptoms but I had told him from the beginning that I don't work with meds. And I need to get off the Propavan. I guess I'll get to hear that I need to take benzodiazipines for a while, regularly. I guess I'll have to live with that. 

I'm not angry with my psychiatrist. He was really convinced that the Seroquel would help me. He maybe should have listened more to my arguments, that I always get side-effects, that I have always gotten worse from meds, instead of better. But on the other hand, I was the one putting the pill in my mouth, swallowing it. Although I knew better. So I'm really really angry with myself. I knew better! So I guess that's one of the reasons why I don't take any sedatives right now, because I unconsciously think that I deserve to feel like this. I like punishing myself. I should have listened to reason and not hoped for getting better. I knew that something like this would happen! So I'm really angry at myself. I'm so damn stupid!

My anxiety is really bad because of the restlessness. I can't sit still. I mean, I do sit still but there is always this urge to move around. I change positions all the time. I tried to exercise the other day because I thought it would make it better but my legs are so damn weak! It just didn't work out. In two weeks I'm supposed to start up my university-studies again. How will I manage that when I'm like this?

I have become suicidal again. We watched "Iron Man 3" the other day and there was a scene when Tony Stark is standing on a cliff. And all I could think about is how nice it would be to be at that cliff and just jump. And this feeling of wanting relief hasn't gotten any better. I think I'm really depressed. I am indifferent and very sad at the same time. I just don't have any mojo. I would right at this moment love to be standing on those cliffs and prepare to jump. Fortunately all our windows have locks so I can't jump from any of the windows. You know, we live on the sixth floor. And at one time I tried to jump out of our bedroom-window but my boyfriend saw me and wrestled me down. So since then we can't open any of the windows wholly, just a few inches. And I suppose that's good when I have feelings like I'm having right now.

My wedding day. Anxiety-hell

I got married two days ago. But I've been doing so badly with the damn restlessness in my legs that I couldn't be bothered to  write a post about it. Actually, I have gotten so far in my thoughts that I would like to surgically remove my legs. It's just driving me insane. I don't think this will ever go away so hopefully I'll get used to it with time. I could take sedatives because they tend to help but how is that a solution? Right, now I've started this with a lot of complaining again. All I wanted was to write about my "wedding".

So we had booked an appoointment at the town house/citizen center at 4 p.m. on Thursday. We didn't want any huge celebration or an actual party. There were three reasons for that: 1. we didn't have the money to actually host a party with a venue, music and food  2. I just didn't want my dad to be there because that would have meant that I had to dress and behave the way he wants to, and I didn't want my mum to be there because she would have overdone it. I mean, she called me the day before we got married and asked if I was going to have any flowers. It would look beautiful on the wedding-pictures. Erm, no. and 3. I have social anxiety and I just wouldn't have been able to get through a whole day where the focus is on me. I can't even meet friends or take the subway, how could I  able to survive my own wedding? So yeah, it was only me and my boyfriend.

I spent two hours to fix myself up. I didn't want to be overdressed. I just wanted to look "proper" and beautiful for my boyfriend. I wasn't overdressed, I looked goth but wasn't looking like I was on my way to the clubs. I was quite satisfied with the way I looked although I would have loved to weight around 20 kg less. I had terrible spasms in my arms and legs and felt really weak. I could barely stand on my legs. I started to worry that I had gotten some serious nerve damage due to the meds. That caused me some extra-anxiety. I was already anxious about the whole procedure. I had expectation-anxiety: I was imagining myself throwing up in front of a lot of people because of anxiety, or just running away because of a panic attack.

So I wasn't happy and excited. I guess that's what most people are on their wedding-day. I just wanted to get it over with and get back home. The spasms were painful, my legs were so weak and I had a lot of anxiety. So we drove to the place, walked in there (I actually had to wear socks in my high-heels because of some weird reason, my feet have shrunken and my shoes were too big all of the sudden. But as I was wearing black stockings, no one could really see it). I was shaking and just wanted to get out of there. I tried so hard to focus on my boyfriend so I wouldn't totally panic. You know, I wanted to marry him. I just wasn't happy about the whole procedure, me having to go out, having to actually be present and all that. I would have preferred to do it over the internet, some clicks and done. It has nothing to do with that I'm not romantic. Actually, while writing this post I discussed the issue with my boyfriend. I would (and he as well) have been much happier, more content, more excited about getting married via the internet. I wish that option would have been avaiable. So I didn't have to deal with all the negative symptoms of my illnesses. I hate anxiety and it kind of has destroyed my wedding day. But I hadn't expected anything else.

Anyway, we walked in there and there was this huge waiting area with wooden benches. And there were at least 50 people sitting, waiting for their appointment with the social services, the health insurance and the police. We were told to sit down somewhere and wait. So that was when the little bit of romantic feeling that I had got killed. Instead panic won! I was sitting there, my legs were involuntarily moving and I had the big urge to just run away. I focused on my boyfriend, held his hand, stared at the floor. I didn't even think about that I was getting married. I was indifferent to the whole thing. I started to dissociate and still damn worried about my legs just giving up on me. I wanted to get home. I hated the children staring at me. I was convinced people were whispering about us. I wanted to get away.

After about 15 minutes we got called in to a room. It looked like a room that was barely used. It was really dark in there. No one had bothered to turn the lights on I guess. Two women and a man followed us in. The man was the wedding officiant, the other two were witnesses to sign the papers. They didn't ask us for our ID-cards, nothing. We gave them all our papers, they got stamped, things were printed out. Then he asked us if we wanted to have the long or the short version. We both replied silmuntanously "short". You know, my boyfriend has anxiety iusses too and he was white as a ghost. I was worried he would faint or just throw up. Anyway, he asked us if we wanted to marry each other. We said yes. He said that we could exchange rings now. We didn't have any rings. He signed the papers. We didn't have to sign anything. We shook hands. We asked him to take a picture of us (my mum would have KILLED me if there hadn't been a picture). And that was that.

Then we went to sit in the car and smoke a cigarette. We kissed and both said that we were glad that it was over. We didn't want the "getting married" thing, we just wanted "to be married". So now we are married. We went home and had some cake. We got tons of phone-calls, sms, cards and Facebook-messages that day. Honestly, we counted, over 250 people contacted us. I have a lot of friends because I have lived in two countries and my family is huge. So yeah. Anyway, think if all those people would have come to our wedding. It would have been terrible for me. We later just sat on the bed and watched two movies. We ate junk food. We cuddled the cats. That's what makes me happy. Being together with my little family. Not a huge fake-romantic party!

So I'm married now. It doesn't feel any different to just being together. I have handed in papers to change my last name to my husband's (how weird it is to write "husband") and they said it will only take a few days for it to be approved. So I'll get rid off the name that connects me to my father. It will be the best feeling in the world, to see my  new name on an envelope. It's like finally getting my dad out of my life. He actually called me on my wedding-day. We maybe talked for a minute and he congratulated me. I was surprised about that. In some way I was happy that he at least had the decency to call. My mum had texted me all day long and we talked on the phone a few times. My brother wrote to me on Facebook and my sister and I skyped for an hour the next day. So my family didn't forget about me, despite all the shit that is going on right now with the divorce of my parents. 

I'm happy to be married. I think. I'm actually still a bit indifferent which has a lot to do with the weird spasms, the restlessness, the anxiety. I haven't had a moment where I could actually feel what it's going on inside of me. So yeah, my illness has destroyed my wedding-day for me. I couldn't focus on being happy. But it doesn't matter. I have done it, it's behind me and our relationship is in a new phase now. Sadly enough we didn't have any wedding-sex. We never have sex anyway. So yeah.