Or rather, the Day my Brain Broke.
Well, it didn't actually *break*...
But physically, psychologically, emotionally... it felt like it. I don't really remember who I was that day. When I look back, with slight horror, it's like I'm watching this fucked up sitcom about a very desperate and unstable person, I realise that it's me. That person is me. Was me. But she's still in there somewhere, currently hidden in some back room, gagged and chained. Sometimes she tries to get out. Sometimes she cries. At times, she rages, promising to ruin me when she gets out. She also has telepathic skills, so when I feel good, accomplished, I feel the little voices of doubt, negativity, creep through my sense of awareness. Especially when I am very tired and overwhelmed.
Her name is Depression. She's one insidious bitch.
At times, I wonder, who really is the prisoner here? The unfairly judged one? The one denied of basic freedom? Depression, or me? And so, on that monumental day, when my brain broke, I became the prisoner. I became the victim of those thoughts, of those feelings, even of my own actions. All of which I was struggling to comprehend, and make sense of. Even my own partner, who I had cold heartedly dumped so badly a couple weeks earlier, struggled. Yet I couldn't clearly emphasise what I was feeling, to anybody. I had been to my GP several times over a period of two months, I had been put on medication, received counselling, and yet, I needed more help. And there was none. I also hurt a few people close to me in the process, out of frustration, and this is something I've worked incredibly hard to repair and maintain, because I cannot be without my people, those who support me, and vice versa.
So. On that Day that my Brain Broke...
It completely broke. It shattered into a thousand pieces, all shiny, and reflecting pieces of myself. Of who I was. Cruelly reflecting my own desperate attempts to cut deeply into my arm, and I guess, if I hadn't got the help when I did, to end my own life. To end the way I was feeling. It was a desperate last resort. I didn't like the way I was feeling, but somehow, I couldn't climb out of that black hole. It was like an optical illusion, every time I looked up, the opening to glorious sunshine was just out of hand's width. But I kept having to climb up, slowly and tiredly, as that opening to freedom treacherously slipped further away.
After I had drunk a lot of alcohol - I'd bought it that day with the aim to just get completely trashed - I was taken to hospital by my mother, where I was admitted to sleep and detox, and I was placed under the mental health crisis team.
The next day, I woke up very groggily, to see my Dad beside my bed, holding my toki pounamu (which I had taken off in anger the night before) in his hand, with the usual busyness of the emergency ward around us, I realised what I had done. And, so therefore, began my journey as one of thousands of New Zealanders in the mental health system.
Well, it didn't actually *break*...
But physically, psychologically, emotionally... it felt like it. I don't really remember who I was that day. When I look back, with slight horror, it's like I'm watching this fucked up sitcom about a very desperate and unstable person, I realise that it's me. That person is me. Was me. But she's still in there somewhere, currently hidden in some back room, gagged and chained. Sometimes she tries to get out. Sometimes she cries. At times, she rages, promising to ruin me when she gets out. She also has telepathic skills, so when I feel good, accomplished, I feel the little voices of doubt, negativity, creep through my sense of awareness. Especially when I am very tired and overwhelmed.
Her name is Depression. She's one insidious bitch.
At times, I wonder, who really is the prisoner here? The unfairly judged one? The one denied of basic freedom? Depression, or me? And so, on that monumental day, when my brain broke, I became the prisoner. I became the victim of those thoughts, of those feelings, even of my own actions. All of which I was struggling to comprehend, and make sense of. Even my own partner, who I had cold heartedly dumped so badly a couple weeks earlier, struggled. Yet I couldn't clearly emphasise what I was feeling, to anybody. I had been to my GP several times over a period of two months, I had been put on medication, received counselling, and yet, I needed more help. And there was none. I also hurt a few people close to me in the process, out of frustration, and this is something I've worked incredibly hard to repair and maintain, because I cannot be without my people, those who support me, and vice versa.
So. On that Day that my Brain Broke...
It completely broke. It shattered into a thousand pieces, all shiny, and reflecting pieces of myself. Of who I was. Cruelly reflecting my own desperate attempts to cut deeply into my arm, and I guess, if I hadn't got the help when I did, to end my own life. To end the way I was feeling. It was a desperate last resort. I didn't like the way I was feeling, but somehow, I couldn't climb out of that black hole. It was like an optical illusion, every time I looked up, the opening to glorious sunshine was just out of hand's width. But I kept having to climb up, slowly and tiredly, as that opening to freedom treacherously slipped further away.
After I had drunk a lot of alcohol - I'd bought it that day with the aim to just get completely trashed - I was taken to hospital by my mother, where I was admitted to sleep and detox, and I was placed under the mental health crisis team.
The next day, I woke up very groggily, to see my Dad beside my bed, holding my toki pounamu (which I had taken off in anger the night before) in his hand, with the usual busyness of the emergency ward around us, I realised what I had done. And, so therefore, began my journey as one of thousands of New Zealanders in the mental health system.
Comments
Post a Comment