…bring May flowers
I’m sitting on the bus as I write this. It’s 8:30 PM and the sun hasn’t set yet. Today has felt, and smelt, a lot more like spring than te past few weeks. No more winter coat. No more winter shoes. No more thick leggings or tights. The wind feels milder. It has been raining instead of snowing for the first time in five months, FIVE months, so it’s a welcome change. The tapping of droplets on our tin roof has really helped me fall asleep.
I had my admission interview for the Psychiatric Day Ward last Friday. I had suspected it would be a disappointment – and, naturally, it was. The doctor and nurse, my soon-to-be personal worker, were of the soft-spoken kind, their speech a slow, whispering drawl. It felt as though they thought even a slight raise of their voices would make me crumble to pieces like a fucking pastry. I guess in a way they were trying to gently give me the news that I have to wait another few weeks to be admitted. Embittered, I stared at the tiny alarm clock in front of me and tried to control my aggression as I demanded to know whether I would receive support and treatment in waiting. The answer? Negative. They said I would normally be seeing my nurse once each week. I scoffed loudly, explaining how I receive nothing out of those appointments and that, as my nurse had told me herself, they were mainly for them to stay posted with my symptoms. I asked what the hell they expected me to do in the meantime. The doctor leaned in and told me to focus on the good things, and that these things tend to heal with time. I swear my face was firetruck-red with rage by this point. Had I been capable of just focusing on the good things, like a normal human being, I wouldn’t have been sitting in that room in the first place. I reluctantly took the nurses business card and walked out the door, locked myself in the bathroom and cried, kicking at the door frame.
The truth is, had the clinic really taken action a year ago when I was first admitted, I would not be in this condition. I have repeatedly demanded to get the sort of treatment I need but have always been cut short. Only when I went through the Emergency Room a few weeks ago did they begin to do their job. And I guess in my naivety I had built much too big an expectation for the upcoming treatment. My cynicism and naivety tend to clash a lot these days.
On a positive note, once I got home, I talked to my family; I let out my resentment and aggression and disappointment vocally instead of clutching a blade and listening to the voices telling me to slice my skin. I guess I’m recovering. I guess I need to wait. I guess that I’m not always right. I guess I just need to remain open.
It’s time to actually listen to the advice I give others and act accordingly myself. I am so ready to help others. Yet I cannot help myself. The thought of throwing my blades away gives me the same sort of stab in the stomach that I get from thinking of losing my 17 year-old teddybear. The thought of asking for help makes me feel like an infant. But I guess I need to accept the fact that I am not alone anymore. You’d think that would be easier to embrace.