Therapy

After my suicide attempt I was released from hospital and sent home with my parents(well my mother, my father living separately of course). We went to meet with my psychiatrist in college and it was recommended I be referred to the nearest psychiatric hospital. I had no health insurance, so all of my dealings with mental health services would be through the public health system.

I was assessed by the hospital, although I have no memory of it, and I was registered as a day patient. This meant that I would attend the hospital Monday to Friday, participating in group therapy sessions. I was also linked in with a new psychiatrist in the local mental health clinic. I would remain a patient of this clinic for a number of years, but as it was a public service, the doctors would change every six months. This constant change, coupled with my intense fear of abandonment, meant I never fully trusted any of the psychiatrists I met. It also meant that despite records being kept of my visits, I had to repeat my history for each new face I saw. The years I spent under the clinic were like being stuck in a perpetual time loop, always being dragged back to the past.

The Day Hospital was terrifying at first; I was incredibly self-conscious and shy, which left me feeling awkward and uncomfortable at all times. I had also never spent time with other people who suffered with mental health issues. As there was only one day programme all of the patients in the group struggled with different difficulties, and were at different stages of their recovery. I freely admit that I was slightly apprehensive on my first day, fearing that the bi-polar patients and the young man with schizophrenia might erupt at any point. I quickly realised that my per-conceived notions of psychiatric illnesses were entirely incorrect, and that the people in my group were no different than anyone else. In fact, in some ways, they were better because they understood what it was to have your own mind turn against you. There was also a sense of camaraderie - we were all there because we were suffering, and we were all there trying to get help. That is not to say we all believed the programme would work, I certainly didn't, but we were willing to try.

I spent six weeks in the day hospital; talking, painting, writing, sculpting, talking some more. I did not come out 'better'. There is no better with mental illnesses and disorders, and even if I could have been fixed, a few weeks of splashing paint across a page wasn't going to do it. But my time there gave me an anchor while my medications were being tweaked, and a safe place to go as my suicidal urges slowly receded.

Throughout this time my relationship with my father had been strained; he did not believe there was anything wrong with me that hard work or a walk couldn't fix, and he was vehemently opposed to me taking medication. When I was discharged, my parents assumed I had put all of my nonsense behind me and I was expected to get my life firmly back on track. I re-took and passed my first year exams, allowing me to begin the second year of my degree that September. My dad found me a job working in a friends pharmacy, as I had left my data entry job in a bank after my suicide attempt. College, job - as far as everyone was concerned I was back to being a normal, sane person.

But the thing my parents forgot, or rather didn't know, was that I had not been 'normal' for a long time. They believed my suicide attempt was a result of stress, that I had become overwhelmed in college and this had caused my depression. I know the college psychiatrist told them my diagnosis, but it was forgotten the moment it was heard. For my part, I did nothing to alert them to my continuing problems. Primarily because I wanted to avoid any more confrontations with them, but also because I hadn't stopped self harming and I wasn't willing to give it up. I was still struggling with intense and frequent mood swings, anxiety and depression. The medication and therapy had done nothing to change the thoughts and emotions that thundered inside my skull, so self harming was the only effective tool in my arsenal. So I kept quiet, plastered a smile on my face, and waited. Waited for that black wave to pull me under again; death was coming, I just had to wait.

Before I started my second year of college, my mother, step-father and sister moved to South Africa. They certainly(and understandably) weren't going to give the crazy 18 year old free reign in their house, so my dad paid for me to move into on-campus accommodation. If you asked me to list the most significant moments in my life, their departure would definitely be included. On a rational level, since my step-father had retired they wanted a change of scenery, an adventure somewhere warm. I was starting my second year of college so going with them was impossible, and I had no interest in living in South Africa. Oh if only rational thought reigned supreme in my mind. To me, emotional mind running rampant of course, this was yet another rejection. My father had left me as a child, my step-father had openly rejected me and now my mother was abandoning me. To me, this was her way of telling me she didn't want me. This led to my next conclusion; I was living on campus because my dad didn't want me in his house. I had always known I was unwanted and unloved and now I had proof.

My first night in my new dorm I cried my eyes out. I cried from loneliness. I cried from fear. I cried because I couldn't stand my own company, but I was all I had.

And then second year started, and it all went downhill from there. More downhill. I actually dug a hole at the bottom of the hill and just kept digging.