I have been warned time and again to always be careful not to get too comfortable during inpatient treatment. That people can learn to love being in hospital, and either lengthen their stay unnecessarily or constantly seek to return to one; by either consciously or unconsciously sabotaging their mental health or not putting in the work needed to get better. I can see that for some people, having little or no responsibility for yourself could be appealing. Or perhaps the hospital environment is simply more pleasant or less distressing than their home environment.
This is not the case for me. I am a control freak, textbook BPD with co-morbid eating disorder. Ask my boyfriend, I'm a pain in the ass, and when I am depressed it gets even worse - I try and counter my out of control emotional state by micro managing everything else I possibly can, spontaneous does not exist in my little bubble. But in hospital, I am bound by the rules and timetables of the ward. When I eat, wash, walk, talk - it's all controlled by someone else. Hell, I can't even have a cup of coffee outside of the designated warm beverage times. And let me tell you, it is a long wait from 5am to 8.30am when you can finally clasp a hot cup of roasted bean glory. But, there is a reason I am here, I recognise this. The systems they have in place here are likely tried and tested and are for the benefit of the patients.
Knowing this makes it no less irritating to one such as myself. This post probably seems entirely pointless at this point, stop withering on about it Lisa. But right now, and for the last 60 minutes, I should be doing some work in order to get into a particular mindset for the impending unpleasantness that is breakfast. But I can't. Because I have run out of plastic pockets to put my worksheets into as I read them. And I have only a handful of pages left in my journal, which I have taken to clutching to my chest at all times, like some sort of scribble safety blanket. As I am confined to the ward, I cannot get to the coffee shop and buy and new journal; let alone somewhere for plastic pockets. I can ask my boyfriend to procure these items and bring them to me on Wednesday but by then there will be multiple pages needed to be sheathed and I'll be left with loose A4 pages to write on. Which is wrong, the pages of a journal must be bound together in one notebook. They must be sequential, not loose and fool hardy; likely at any moment to slip from between the pages that hold it.
So I decided to stop staring at the nearly full diary and four remaining plastic pockets, and blog instead. Hoping to pull my mind back from the spiralling abyss and refocus. At least for long enough to get through breakfast. All these words are here, in cyber space, just so that I can step away from a ludacris stationary conundrum and cry over a bowl of muesli.
I might not like hospitals, and the loss of freedom that goes with them, but it's possible I might need them.
Sunday 31 May 2015
Wednesday 20 May 2015
Admission
My assessment with the eating disorder clinic took place yesterday. On Monday I was both surprised to have made it to the previously unreachable date, and filled with fear and anxiety. My distress levels reached so high that I slept for only two hours that night, two hours filled with nightmares and terrifying delusions. My meeting with the consultant is mostly gone from my memory, but I felt, and still feel, that I failed to express myself accurately. I had to fight to get each word out, and the voices in my head were buzzing so loudly, forming those words into comprehensive sentences was all but impossible. At one point I was so lost for words I was one more silence filled second from channeling Princess Leia
Nevertheless it was decided I did indeed need admission to hospital for my depression and I was told I would be contacted once a bed became available. Victory! That's what you're all probably thinking. Finally I would be getting the help I needed and had waited so long for. Surely a sense of relief and even happiness filled me as I left the appointment. Step forward Ms.Borderline Personality Disorder. Happiness is not an emotion I feel at present, or indeed for some time now. So no, I did not feel happy. This is not unusual given the aforementioned depression. Probably more confusing for you, is that what actually filled me was anger and hate, with some more fear thrown in for good measure.
Who or what was this hate directed at? Why all of you, of course. It burned under my skin for hours, roared in my head ceaselessly, until I could do no more than hide myself away in bed and try and wait for the waves of emotion to calm. I hate you, all of you, because you helped me to get to that assessment, thereby helped me get approved for admission to hospital and, here we come to the crux of the matter, helped me to stay alive. Every part of me raged against the idea that admission might mean a continued existence. We want out, we are tired, we have suffered enough. Yes, millions have suffered far worse than me, are suffering at this very moment. But we have had enough of our pain. We do not want to try anymore, how dare you all be so selfish, and cruel, to make me feel this anguish for one more day. I can stand outside of myself and see the basic wrongness of these feelings but that doesn't make them any less true for me. I suppose it is the nature of my personality disorder to want to fight against help, because it doesn't want to get better. Its goal has always been that final, blissful quiet. To embrace the dying of the light, not rage against it and fight on. I'm not sure if someone who has never wanted to die can understand such thoughts, but they are what they are.
Today the hate is gone, but the fear remains as strong as ever. Fear of the unknown, fear of finally facing the full force of the feelings I have to hold back everyday, fear at the hard work that lies ahead. A fighter would probably take that fear, and use it, spit in its eye and forge ahead. There is no fight in me today, so I hide away in my fortress and move through the day like a shadow, here but not present. Certainly not 'living in the moment'. Tut, tut, my DBT instructors would be most displeased; I am failing Mindfulness 101.
Now all that is left to do it play the waiting game, again. I suppose those who care for me will be hoping one becomes available quickly, so that I can be somewhere safe and they can worry just a little less. There is no hope in me, just the same question repeating over and over - 'Is there any point to this?'.
Only time will tell.
Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope
Nevertheless it was decided I did indeed need admission to hospital for my depression and I was told I would be contacted once a bed became available. Victory! That's what you're all probably thinking. Finally I would be getting the help I needed and had waited so long for. Surely a sense of relief and even happiness filled me as I left the appointment. Step forward Ms.Borderline Personality Disorder. Happiness is not an emotion I feel at present, or indeed for some time now. So no, I did not feel happy. This is not unusual given the aforementioned depression. Probably more confusing for you, is that what actually filled me was anger and hate, with some more fear thrown in for good measure.
Who or what was this hate directed at? Why all of you, of course. It burned under my skin for hours, roared in my head ceaselessly, until I could do no more than hide myself away in bed and try and wait for the waves of emotion to calm. I hate you, all of you, because you helped me to get to that assessment, thereby helped me get approved for admission to hospital and, here we come to the crux of the matter, helped me to stay alive. Every part of me raged against the idea that admission might mean a continued existence. We want out, we are tired, we have suffered enough. Yes, millions have suffered far worse than me, are suffering at this very moment. But we have had enough of our pain. We do not want to try anymore, how dare you all be so selfish, and cruel, to make me feel this anguish for one more day. I can stand outside of myself and see the basic wrongness of these feelings but that doesn't make them any less true for me. I suppose it is the nature of my personality disorder to want to fight against help, because it doesn't want to get better. Its goal has always been that final, blissful quiet. To embrace the dying of the light, not rage against it and fight on. I'm not sure if someone who has never wanted to die can understand such thoughts, but they are what they are.
Today the hate is gone, but the fear remains as strong as ever. Fear of the unknown, fear of finally facing the full force of the feelings I have to hold back everyday, fear at the hard work that lies ahead. A fighter would probably take that fear, and use it, spit in its eye and forge ahead. There is no fight in me today, so I hide away in my fortress and move through the day like a shadow, here but not present. Certainly not 'living in the moment'. Tut, tut, my DBT instructors would be most displeased; I am failing Mindfulness 101.
Now all that is left to do it play the waiting game, again. I suppose those who care for me will be hoping one becomes available quickly, so that I can be somewhere safe and they can worry just a little less. There is no hope in me, just the same question repeating over and over - 'Is there any point to this?'.
Only time will tell.
Monday 18 May 2015
New blog
Due to constant technical issues with my previous blog site I have moved to a new, and hopefully more available, site. I have copied over some of my previous posts to the new page, but I will not be moving all of them. Mostly because I am too lazy to copy and paste, but also because it is my intention, should I not succumb to my demons, to blog regularly; something I did not do in the past. When I can write, the noise in my head reduces, more so than with any other activity. So the plan would be to write, whenever I need to, to form sentences from the static in my mind and send them out into the world. Hopefully freeing me from some of their weight in the process.
Today, the noise is too much. The above paragraph has my heart pounding and my ears buzzing with the strain of it. But tomorrow I have my long awaited assessment with an Eating Disorder clinic and my fate will be decided. In or out, live or die. Either way, I will likely have some endless diatribe for you then.
All old, and quite frankly, morose blogs can be found here. Well that or a big white screen with ERROR on it.
Today, the noise is too much. The above paragraph has my heart pounding and my ears buzzing with the strain of it. But tomorrow I have my long awaited assessment with an Eating Disorder clinic and my fate will be decided. In or out, live or die. Either way, I will likely have some endless diatribe for you then.
All old, and quite frankly, morose blogs can be found here. Well that or a big white screen with ERROR on it.
The numbers game
I’m not sure if this post is a good idea, while I am not and will not be ashamed of my mental health struggles, I am wary of upsetting my family. That said, I have always found writing to be cathartic, and I often find strength from vocalising my thoughts. So I will forge on, and hope that anyone who is offended or upset by my words can understand that no harm is intended.
Today is the final day of my twenties, I will enter the next decade of my life in a few hours and I wish I could say that I am facing the future with hope and a renewed vigour for life. The reality is, I am starting my thirties in the the midst of a long and difficult bought of depression, struggling with self harm, suicidal thoughts and an eating disorder. I have been out of work for nearly 10 months and some days I struggle just to keep breathing, never mind attempting to function at some ‘normal’ level. Starting out a new decade of my life in the space I find myself is terrifying. So terrifying, that at times over the last week, I didn’t think I would be able to reach tomorrow. But I have, or I will, so now I must decided how to begin this new chapter of my life.
Last Friday I went for a meal with my boyfriends parents, and for an hour I struggled to find something to wear. Everything was too big, even items I had purchased a month before hung awkwardly from my body. I eventually settled on a shapeless jumper and dress, but I was stuck in a land of confusion. Why did nothing fit me? I was certain I had gained weight in recent days, and despite being told the week before that I had lost 3 kilos in 2 weeks, I felt bigger than ever. My confusion was genuine, and the thoughts swirled round and round in my head for hours until finally, I looked in the mirror in the restroom and thought, maybe I have lost weight. Maybe the constant feelings of being grotesque and overweight were coming from the eating disorder, and were not facts, but beliefs being fed to me by that insidious voice. So I took a picture, to capture the moment, what I thought was the beginning of finally understanding my illness and seeing it for what it really was. A lie, a trap that I was stuck in and I just needed to find my way free. I would use this picture to fight back the voice that makes me weigh fat free yoghurt into 57 calorie portions, the voice that causes me to panic when I forget to watch the barista making my coffee to ensure they really used skimmed milk and weren’t tricking me into consuming extra calories and fat. This picture was also the first time I had looked at my whole self in the mirror in two months, as me own reflection had become so unbearable I could only look at certain body parts at at a time. There was too much to hate in one glance otherwise.
I wish I could tell you that my plan worked. But the next day I looked at the picture and felt only disgust. My eyes were drawn to the fat on my thighs, the roundness of my calves, the excess flesh on my cheekbones. What was I thinking? Of course I wasn’t too thin, here I had proof of that. I was a failure, a mockery, a whale. At the doctors this morning they told me I had lost another kilo and that voice filled my head. What a disappointment you are, only one kilo this time, you can’t even diet properly. So I set a target in my head, a nice round number, and that voice promised that once we reached it I would be rewarded. I would have achieved something, I would be a winner for once. I readily agreed with this plan, of course, 2 more kilos and I will be just right. It will be finished, and I will be happy with what I see.
This is a lie. With an eating disorder, you can never reach the finish line because the goal posts will always move. If you had told me last year I would weigh what I do today, I would have scoffed. I know it is a lie but I can do nothing but work towards the current target because there is no other option. In the words of The Borg, resistance is futile. Resistance is failure, and failing at this will just make the pain worse, the loathing stronger, the abusive voices louder.
I looked back today on a photo of myself from my birthday last year, and I see no difference in the two images. I see mistakes to be fixed, bulges and flesh in abundance, I see that I have achieved nothing in the last year. And deep down inside, buried beneath the depression and the eating disorder and the hatred, I feel a profound sadness. Because more than numbers on a scale, the most important thing I have failed at in the last year, the last ten years, is finding my way out of the trap.
Today is the final day of my twenties, I will enter the next decade of my life in a few hours and I wish I could say that I am facing the future with hope and a renewed vigour for life. The reality is, I am starting my thirties in the the midst of a long and difficult bought of depression, struggling with self harm, suicidal thoughts and an eating disorder. I have been out of work for nearly 10 months and some days I struggle just to keep breathing, never mind attempting to function at some ‘normal’ level. Starting out a new decade of my life in the space I find myself is terrifying. So terrifying, that at times over the last week, I didn’t think I would be able to reach tomorrow. But I have, or I will, so now I must decided how to begin this new chapter of my life.
Last Friday I went for a meal with my boyfriends parents, and for an hour I struggled to find something to wear. Everything was too big, even items I had purchased a month before hung awkwardly from my body. I eventually settled on a shapeless jumper and dress, but I was stuck in a land of confusion. Why did nothing fit me? I was certain I had gained weight in recent days, and despite being told the week before that I had lost 3 kilos in 2 weeks, I felt bigger than ever. My confusion was genuine, and the thoughts swirled round and round in my head for hours until finally, I looked in the mirror in the restroom and thought, maybe I have lost weight. Maybe the constant feelings of being grotesque and overweight were coming from the eating disorder, and were not facts, but beliefs being fed to me by that insidious voice. So I took a picture, to capture the moment, what I thought was the beginning of finally understanding my illness and seeing it for what it really was. A lie, a trap that I was stuck in and I just needed to find my way free. I would use this picture to fight back the voice that makes me weigh fat free yoghurt into 57 calorie portions, the voice that causes me to panic when I forget to watch the barista making my coffee to ensure they really used skimmed milk and weren’t tricking me into consuming extra calories and fat. This picture was also the first time I had looked at my whole self in the mirror in two months, as me own reflection had become so unbearable I could only look at certain body parts at at a time. There was too much to hate in one glance otherwise.
I wish I could tell you that my plan worked. But the next day I looked at the picture and felt only disgust. My eyes were drawn to the fat on my thighs, the roundness of my calves, the excess flesh on my cheekbones. What was I thinking? Of course I wasn’t too thin, here I had proof of that. I was a failure, a mockery, a whale. At the doctors this morning they told me I had lost another kilo and that voice filled my head. What a disappointment you are, only one kilo this time, you can’t even diet properly. So I set a target in my head, a nice round number, and that voice promised that once we reached it I would be rewarded. I would have achieved something, I would be a winner for once. I readily agreed with this plan, of course, 2 more kilos and I will be just right. It will be finished, and I will be happy with what I see.
This is a lie. With an eating disorder, you can never reach the finish line because the goal posts will always move. If you had told me last year I would weigh what I do today, I would have scoffed. I know it is a lie but I can do nothing but work towards the current target because there is no other option. In the words of The Borg, resistance is futile. Resistance is failure, and failing at this will just make the pain worse, the loathing stronger, the abusive voices louder.
I looked back today on a photo of myself from my birthday last year, and I see no difference in the two images. I see mistakes to be fixed, bulges and flesh in abundance, I see that I have achieved nothing in the last year. And deep down inside, buried beneath the depression and the eating disorder and the hatred, I feel a profound sadness. Because more than numbers on a scale, the most important thing I have failed at in the last year, the last ten years, is finding my way out of the trap.
Sunday 10 May 2015
Following weeks of frustration and an increasing hopelessness I sent this email to the powers that be. My experience with our mental health system has been incredibly difficult and has certainly worsened my feelings of worthlessness. And if it’s happening to me, it’s certainly happening to others in need.
Hi,
My name is Lisa Naylor, I am 30 years old and I suffer from depression and an eating disorder. I have been struggling with this current period of illness for over a year and have attempted suicide multiple times and been hospitalised twice; once in John of Gods and once in Lois Bridges. I am currently under the care of Coolock Mental Health Clinic, and have been put under home care as I was seen as too unwell to attend my local day hospital. Four weeks ago I advised my registrar, Dr Niyi, that I could no longer see a way out of my depression and could not guarantee my safety. After extensive interviews with my doctor, nurses and a local consultant it was decided I needed a short stay in hospital in order to ensure my safety and give my mind a rest from the constant struggle with my self harm and suicidal impulses.
Luckily, I have health insurance, and referrals were immediately sent to St John of Gods and St Patrick’s Hospitals asking for admission for a major depressive episode. In the last four weeks I have spent my days fighting against every fibre of my being to give in to the never ending voices in my head, urging me to end my pain. I have been self harming almost daily and spend hours face down in a toilet, forcing myself to throw up whatever I have eaten. I feel no joy, I feel no contentment, I feel nothing but self loathing and pain. All day, everyday.
I have been told that as a result of my eating disorder I must wait until the end of May for an assessment in St Pat’s, that I cannot be given a bed to keep me safe until after this date. St John of God’s refuses to answer multiple phone calls and voice mails about an admission. I have been advised that the public ward in Beaumont is not an option as they are at crisis point. My very dedicated HSE team have literally run out of options and can give me no answers or reassurances. I am 30, I am suffering, and I have nothing left to give. It took everything I had to tell my doctor how I felt and it was all for nothing. I am going to die because I asked for help and nobody answered.
I am not sending you this email for pity, or dramatic effect,but to highlight the fact that something is very wrong with our mental health system. I am going to die because of paperwork. Please, do not let this happen to someone else.
“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing” – Edmund Burke
Sincerely,
Lisa Naylor
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