In these times of all the technology we could ever want, need, and desire, we are often constantly reminded to practice self care, for ourselves. What is it exactly? Most people think it's exercise or yoga, self help books or podcasts, shopping, or spending time outdoors or with our loved ones.
But the reality is, when you are completely broken, of mind, body and soul, none of these things are even in your periphery. They won't, and don't, work when you are in that space. At all. Within several hours of being admitted to hospital, I found myself in a respite care unit, run by a local church in conjunction with volunteer medical staff, psychiatrists, and social workers. Initially, this was for those first 48 hours of my After. It sure beat Hillmorton. I had a bare room all to myself, with a small ranch slider leading to outside, which I stared out of a lot. Comfortable bed, check. I didn't have to do anything except eat when called for mealtimes, pee, shower, and spend almost entirely that time on my own. So I slept. I slept a lot in those 48 hours. When my 48 hours were up, I fought for another 48 hours, as did my social worker. I absolutely did not want to go home, where I was at my worst. I was grudgingly granted this. I say grudgingly, because when you are a part of the mental health system, you are but just a face, a patient number, to them. They see so many like me, some worse than me. But I could not face leaving. It had become a safe place for me, in a way, safe from those whom I had hurt so badly, by my own actions. I had banned myself from my phone during this time and had asked for no contact.
For reasons unknown to me, I also grabbed my meagre art supplies from home when I was able to come back to shower and pack. I had been trying some "self care" leading up to my breakdown, and going back to art after 20-plus years was, I guess, a way of doing this. So, in those last 48 hours, I drew. And then I painted. I also read a lot on my Kindle, I actually read two entire Stephen King novels during this time. Thanks to quetiapine, I was able to sleep when I needed to, so I could escape from the thoughts whirling through my mind, and just escape from life in general. To stop feeling sorry for myself, to not think about what I had done.
Sleep had quickly become a way to heal me. And an escape.
I was unceremoniously turfed out of my bedroom, which felt like an insult to myself, because they needed to prepare my room for the influx of other guests that they were expecting for the upcoming weekend. Good old NZ mental health system. I did notice, when I was finally able to leave about three hours later, that they still had not been into the room. Go figure.
I still didn't want to go home. Even after five days. But I had to. There was no where else to go, and nothing else that could be done for me. So, I went home, and I tried my best to get back into routine, especially for the kids. Not too surprisingly, I had a big setback several days after leaving the safety of respite. I cut myself again. My social worker wasn't too surprised to hear of this, and seemed resigned about it. I guess that he sees this day in, day out, the desperately hopeless situation his patients are in. And knowing that he can only do his best. Because of regulations, and procedures, and the fact that I am profoundly Deaf, he would come visit every Sunday afternoon after he started his shift at the hospital. No text messaging or emails allowed. So he took the time out to drive 25 minutes out of the city to see me briefly. This, I will always appreciate, always.
I remember, clearly, him telling me that it's not "an overnight thing. It won't happen for a long time" in his pragmatic way. What did he mean? When you are so utterly broken, of mind, body, and soul, it takes a long time to heal. And this, almost six months down the track, I am only just realising. And that he is right.
While I have taken measures to help myself, sleep remains my biggest and most important method of self help. I still take a quetiapine to help me sleep. Sometimes, I think I'm still on it so I can still escape Ms Depression in the dark of the night, when my own Machiavellian thoughts are used against my sub conscious. If I don't sleep well, I cannot function.
Sleep. It's important.
But the reality is, when you are completely broken, of mind, body and soul, none of these things are even in your periphery. They won't, and don't, work when you are in that space. At all. Within several hours of being admitted to hospital, I found myself in a respite care unit, run by a local church in conjunction with volunteer medical staff, psychiatrists, and social workers. Initially, this was for those first 48 hours of my After. It sure beat Hillmorton. I had a bare room all to myself, with a small ranch slider leading to outside, which I stared out of a lot. Comfortable bed, check. I didn't have to do anything except eat when called for mealtimes, pee, shower, and spend almost entirely that time on my own. So I slept. I slept a lot in those 48 hours. When my 48 hours were up, I fought for another 48 hours, as did my social worker. I absolutely did not want to go home, where I was at my worst. I was grudgingly granted this. I say grudgingly, because when you are a part of the mental health system, you are but just a face, a patient number, to them. They see so many like me, some worse than me. But I could not face leaving. It had become a safe place for me, in a way, safe from those whom I had hurt so badly, by my own actions. I had banned myself from my phone during this time and had asked for no contact.
For reasons unknown to me, I also grabbed my meagre art supplies from home when I was able to come back to shower and pack. I had been trying some "self care" leading up to my breakdown, and going back to art after 20-plus years was, I guess, a way of doing this. So, in those last 48 hours, I drew. And then I painted. I also read a lot on my Kindle, I actually read two entire Stephen King novels during this time. Thanks to quetiapine, I was able to sleep when I needed to, so I could escape from the thoughts whirling through my mind, and just escape from life in general. To stop feeling sorry for myself, to not think about what I had done.
Sleep had quickly become a way to heal me. And an escape.
I was unceremoniously turfed out of my bedroom, which felt like an insult to myself, because they needed to prepare my room for the influx of other guests that they were expecting for the upcoming weekend. Good old NZ mental health system. I did notice, when I was finally able to leave about three hours later, that they still had not been into the room. Go figure.
I still didn't want to go home. Even after five days. But I had to. There was no where else to go, and nothing else that could be done for me. So, I went home, and I tried my best to get back into routine, especially for the kids. Not too surprisingly, I had a big setback several days after leaving the safety of respite. I cut myself again. My social worker wasn't too surprised to hear of this, and seemed resigned about it. I guess that he sees this day in, day out, the desperately hopeless situation his patients are in. And knowing that he can only do his best. Because of regulations, and procedures, and the fact that I am profoundly Deaf, he would come visit every Sunday afternoon after he started his shift at the hospital. No text messaging or emails allowed. So he took the time out to drive 25 minutes out of the city to see me briefly. This, I will always appreciate, always.
I remember, clearly, him telling me that it's not "an overnight thing. It won't happen for a long time" in his pragmatic way. What did he mean? When you are so utterly broken, of mind, body, and soul, it takes a long time to heal. And this, almost six months down the track, I am only just realising. And that he is right.
While I have taken measures to help myself, sleep remains my biggest and most important method of self help. I still take a quetiapine to help me sleep. Sometimes, I think I'm still on it so I can still escape Ms Depression in the dark of the night, when my own Machiavellian thoughts are used against my sub conscious. If I don't sleep well, I cannot function.
Sleep. It's important.
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| The first painting I did in respite, which I gifted to a very close friend |
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