Please forgive the deep irony in the title. I don’t mean to start my first post of 2014 laden with sarcasm. But it is a revealing sign of where I am on my bipolar journey. Comfort and joy feel like a very long way away.
It has been a truly awful Christmas. Try as hard as I could – and despite the amazing love and support of my family – I simply could not lift myself out of the deep depression that has hung over me like a suffocatingly heavy blanket since I came home from hospital. And, of course, I beat up on myself for feeling this way – after all, I have everything going for me – but these truisms don’t help.
And the festive season really didn’t help. Despite not being particularly seduced by the commercialism of Christmas, there are a set of unspoken assumptions about embracing the jollity which simply wasn’t possible for me (and many other folk too).
The ‘silence’ of my last post became protracted and more debilitating. Now my sense of emptiness has developed into a blackness – like a deep, black void into which I have fallen, and am still falling, and from which there appears to be no escape.
And I simply don’t know what to do. My CBT tools still feel powerless to help. And I really don’t want to resort to more meds – I am already stressed out and paranoid about the concoction I am taking. Which leaves me in the void!
I’m beginning to understand what it is to feel hopeless.
Medication
Medication time …..
As I write, it is medication time in my hospital ward. With echoes of ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s nest’ we all queue up (how very English) to receive our meds. It is an humbling experience.
From our disparate backgrounds, we are closely united as we wait to receive our meds. The bonds of friendship are genuine and intense. Rarely have I experienced such care and concern from people I’ve only known for a short time.
We chat openly about our meds, comparing their side effects and efficacy. We debate whether or not to take a Zopiclone (sleeping tablet) – we decide we will – sleep is essential to getting through tomorrow. Progress is slow – we each have a long prescription which needs to be carefully administered – but no one minds.
We talk about the day past, gently enquiring about each other’s struggles and celebrating each other’s progress. The atmosphere is gentle and deeply sincere. The openness and honesty are remarkable and a welcome contrast to the norms of daily life.
Eventually it is my turn at the dispensary. I am greeted warmly by the nurse who asks genuinely about my day and how I’m feeling. Then the large pot of drugs is prepared. I used to be very fearful of taking medication – now I submissively take what is given to me. No, submissive is the wrong word. I thankfully take the meds, aware of my brokenness and of my need of help, and trusting my psychiatrist’s skill and compassion.
With meds gratefully consumed, it is time to bid ‘night, night’ to one’s compatriots and to head to bed before the Zopiclone kicks in.
So ends another day in my psychiatric hospital – a day of triumphs and setbacks, of insights and frustrations. A day when the skill and care of psychiatrists, nurses, therapists and ancillary staff have carried me one step closer to wellness.
doublenutty 