The last anyone heard from me was that I was almost admitted to UMMC’s psychiatric ward due to a breakdown and thus a trip to the emergency ward was due. Needless to say, I’m not completely better. I’m hovering somewhere between zero and negative numbers, mostly because I can’t shake off the anxiety and misery.
The inside of a hospital is never pleasant, and at 9:30pm at night – it was nerve wracking. The walls were all the same shade of green, the same shade of green of the psychiatric floor where my therapist’s clinic is. There were the usual: the uncomfortable chairs, the two stroke patients who were very loud and rooms and curtains partitioning those who were seeking help and those who were not.
I didn’t attempt anything that night. I wasn’t thinking about it. I was just miserable, and my emotional bank balance was in a severe overdraft. Between being stretched too thin and feeling like the walls were coming down on me, I was completely prepared to end it all. Below, I’ll show you the text messages I sent to my psychiatrist that prompted to visit.
The doctor on call was fully prepared to admit me. She said I spent far too much time contemplating my own death and ways I might do it. She called it an obsession, and I think she’s right. I have an obsessive personality after all. I told her that at some point, I just wanted to put a DNR somewhere, in case I tried and didn’t succeed. I even looked up the most idiot-proof, confirmed ways to commit suicide – for what that’s worth, it’s either a gun through the roof the mouth (sever the spinal cord) or hanging. Jumping can’t be a confirmed death unless it’s over 10 storeys.
Depression isn’t something a new lipstick can fix. As someone with BPD, my therapist tells me that it can manifest in different ways. I put up a statement on my Facebook prior to that, and while I was suddenly barraged with supportive (and unhelpful, to be frank) comments and messages – what really made me upset was that people were frantically calling my mother trying to figure out what went wrong. Again, nothing felt like it was about me – except that I was a problem.
This makes me feel narcissistic, but my mental illness has never been about me. A colleague of mine insists that I’m not depressed, that I’m just too cowardly (in his words, chickenshit) to do what’s right. I occasionally believe him. On bad nights, the voices that nag me and tell me that I’m not doing anything right sound like him, sound like my mother, sound like the people that matter to me and that kills me. That makes me want to kill myself. People tell me to draw strength from the people around me, to have faith in God, but at almost 25 years old – I am jaded. I’m caught in between being far too cynical for my age and the hopeless, hopeful naivety reserved for 7 year olds who want to be princesses.
I took the above series of photos yesterday. I’ve been keeping pieces of my boyfriend’s clothing as some sort of security blanket, because at the moment – I feel so isolated. I feel terrible about making him cry in the waiting room, about having to keep my mother out of the admission area so that I wouldn’t have a full on breakdown, and in the end – people have told me that they want to help, and yet I don’t know what to help. I’m better than I was Thursday, but I’m worse off because I’m alive and I’m lost.
Today, a good friend of mine tried to walk in front of a bus in front of the National Blood Bank. The bus braked, he survived. I empathise because I know that feeling all too well. I still struggle with it. I haven’t felt like anything I’ve done anything for me in a long time. Nothing ever seems to be about me: tiptoeing around my family, keeping my mental health issues to myself (mostly) and brushing it off like every millennial does, and just working a job that gets me to write mindless listicles that pay the bills in the end. It’s selfish. I sound so selfish, and there’s a lot of self-flagellation going on here.