Dan Meets An Emergency Therapist
It's no secret that I've not been doing well lately. I've reached my breaking point and everything is falling apart. My thoughts have been so consuming and overwhelming; the emotions have been causing such turmoil not only for me, but at my workplace and with my friendships as well. On Christmas, I seriously hurt myself. I was high, cut up and just wanted to die. I wanted the pain, the thoughts, everything to end. I wanted a break that I so desperately need. Help hasn't been helping, but my drug-addled brain had a moment of clarity to message both my therapist and psychopharmacologist to let them know that I'm seriously not okay.
I've never actually done that before. I've not reached out to anyone on my previous mental health teams when I've felt this way before. I always end up hurt and licking the wounds, struggling alone. Puffs makes me want to try. A promise is a promise. I'm not wholly sure why I decided to keep the promise. I mean after all, how would he know if I didn't try or not? Honour system...I won't give in to the temptation. Something has to change, especially if he and I want to have any sort of future. He's pulling himself out of his shit, so I should try too. That's all we can really do.
I've never actually done that before. I've not reached out to anyone on my previous mental health teams when I've felt this way before. I always end up hurt and licking the wounds, struggling alone. Puffs makes me want to try. A promise is a promise. I'm not wholly sure why I decided to keep the promise. I mean after all, how would he know if I didn't try or not? Honour system...I won't give in to the temptation. Something has to change, especially if he and I want to have any sort of future. He's pulling himself out of his shit, so I should try too. That's all we can really do.
My regular therapist reached out to a few of her colleagues to find out who would be a good fit to help me and who was available while she was out of the office. She got back to me and set me up with Simone*. I was anxious. I don't do well meeting new people, especially in this sort of situation. My freedom is at stake. Actually, I think my job might be too. I just want to go to the appointment and get it over with, but I have to work 6am to 2pm, then take the bus downtown. I'm supposed to go to Pickles' house after for New Years.
Imagine that. What a way to end a year, sat in a psychiatric clinic explaining my suicidal thoughts to a stranger and hoping to fuck she doesn't send me to the nut hut. I've been sent there before so I have hesitation when it comes to being truly open about my thoughts. I know it's important for me to be honest in order to get better, but I need to establish a level of safety. I need to establish trust and make sure I'm able to communicate how I feel without the fear of imprisonment. I think that's one of the things that really holds back patients when seeking out psychiatric care of any sort. The fear of having your human rights, your basic humanity stripped and you locked in a cage. You lose your will to live really. If you have to live your days out in a cage, you're going to want to die even more. Doesn't take a psychiatrist to understand that.
I feel my heart beating and the sweat dripping down my neck as I wait to see *Sofie. It's not even that hot in the waiting room; I'm just a pure mess of nerves. A small Italian woman comes out and calls my name. It barely registers. "Hi." I stand up and grab my rucksack. I'm a head taller than her. She directs me to her office, following behind me. For some reason, the intro to "Tiny Dancer" starts playing in my head. Is my Elton obsession becoming something of a problem? Oh dear. We'll have to put that on a list of things to talk about at a later date. She tells me to take a seat on her couch. The room is so hot. I feel as if I'm going to melt. "Hi, Daniel. Maggie* told me that you were in a sort of crisis and you needed someone to speak to while she's out of the office on holiday." It's nice to speak to someone worldly like me. I really don't know what to say. "Yeah..I've been having a few issues and I figured it was better to come in and talk to someone before I seriously hurt myself in a way that might bring me regret." Soon as the words are out of my mouth, it hits me that I don't regret my self-harm. It makes me who I am. Yes, there are times when I find the scars, the valleys I've carved into my body gross, but for the most part, I ignore them. I cut. I bleed. I clean up. I move on. It's a release valve. I find myself telling Sofie all of this, rambling on.
I feel like I need to make her understand. There is nothing more important in my life right now than having this woman understand the self-harm is just that; a decompression, not a suicide attempt. Yes, there are times when it is, but other times it's me working out what I need to. My brain takes a nice bath in neurochemicals, I feel better and I sleep unaided by medication.
I stretch my arm up because my elbow and neck are starting to ache and my sleeve pulls up. She sees the vicious wounds. She doesn't say anything, but her body language says it all. She stiffens up a bit. I know she's seen self-harm before, but to what extent? Panic floods me. She's going to see this and lock me away. I'm going to have to call my boss from the looney tunes lock-up and tell him I can't be in tomorrow because I'm in a psychiatric prison. I tell her that I'm fine, I can be safe and that I won't be alone. She tells me that I really shouldn't be alone. I know that, but I want to be alone. I feel disgusting, vulnerable and what's worse, pathetic because I've bothered my therapist who's had to call in reinforcements to help my dumbass.
<<I fail to mention that it was indeed a suicide attempt. I don't want her to know. I'm ashamed. Now that it's a month on, I can let it out. I don't have to fear hospitalisation. It felt like I was floating out of my body like I was in a body of water or outer space. I felt like I could finally be happy as I was bleeding all over the duvet, sheets and wall. It felt like I was free of everything and it felt amazing. I wish I could feel that alive all the time. Or at least some part of the time. I don't want to be soft, I don't want to be empty. I just want to be something. Something more than I am. I don't know exactly what's wrong with me anymore. >>
I make it through the appointment and walk out into the cold. The air is a true breath of fresh relief. I don't know how I pulled that off. I hid the heaviness of my suicidal thoughts while getting out things that are bothering me, driving me to the edge of the cliff. My cuts are once again safely hidden in my sleeve, leaking through the shipping tape that I wrapped over them in the morning. I'd hit them at work and they started bleeding, I didn't want to have to mess with the first aid kit and have to worry about all that so I just taped the wounds shut using shipping tape. Not the best idea, but it was one that I could do myself and keep quiet about.
I wore short sleeves as my work shirt is short-sleeved and no one even noticed how I was cut up and bleeding. I thought someone would notice during the 7-hour shift, but no one did. It was something that I both wanted and didn't want. I wanted to hear that someone was worried that I had done that to myself; that I wasn't just expendable like I believe myself to be. On the other hand, I'm glad no one saw it so they couldn't run and tell Snuggles or Mr Clean and then I'd have to explain to them why my wrist was taped together. It would be less awkward with Snuggles as he's seen some of the cuts before but Mr Clean? He might just lose his shit on me. I can't have that.
I'm exhausted. I just want to go home and sleep. I want to be left alone. I can't be with anyone after this. A stranger, having to admit suicidal thoughts, having my vulnerability exposed. I don't want to be here even more than usual. Despite the cold, my cheeks are burning with embarrassment. Why do I have to be fucking like this?
Imagine that. What a way to end a year, sat in a psychiatric clinic explaining my suicidal thoughts to a stranger and hoping to fuck she doesn't send me to the nut hut. I've been sent there before so I have hesitation when it comes to being truly open about my thoughts. I know it's important for me to be honest in order to get better, but I need to establish a level of safety. I need to establish trust and make sure I'm able to communicate how I feel without the fear of imprisonment. I think that's one of the things that really holds back patients when seeking out psychiatric care of any sort. The fear of having your human rights, your basic humanity stripped and you locked in a cage. You lose your will to live really. If you have to live your days out in a cage, you're going to want to die even more. Doesn't take a psychiatrist to understand that.
I feel my heart beating and the sweat dripping down my neck as I wait to see *Sofie. It's not even that hot in the waiting room; I'm just a pure mess of nerves. A small Italian woman comes out and calls my name. It barely registers. "Hi." I stand up and grab my rucksack. I'm a head taller than her. She directs me to her office, following behind me. For some reason, the intro to "Tiny Dancer" starts playing in my head. Is my Elton obsession becoming something of a problem? Oh dear. We'll have to put that on a list of things to talk about at a later date. She tells me to take a seat on her couch. The room is so hot. I feel as if I'm going to melt. "Hi, Daniel. Maggie* told me that you were in a sort of crisis and you needed someone to speak to while she's out of the office on holiday." It's nice to speak to someone worldly like me. I really don't know what to say. "Yeah..I've been having a few issues and I figured it was better to come in and talk to someone before I seriously hurt myself in a way that might bring me regret." Soon as the words are out of my mouth, it hits me that I don't regret my self-harm. It makes me who I am. Yes, there are times when I find the scars, the valleys I've carved into my body gross, but for the most part, I ignore them. I cut. I bleed. I clean up. I move on. It's a release valve. I find myself telling Sofie all of this, rambling on.
I feel like I need to make her understand. There is nothing more important in my life right now than having this woman understand the self-harm is just that; a decompression, not a suicide attempt. Yes, there are times when it is, but other times it's me working out what I need to. My brain takes a nice bath in neurochemicals, I feel better and I sleep unaided by medication.
I stretch my arm up because my elbow and neck are starting to ache and my sleeve pulls up. She sees the vicious wounds. She doesn't say anything, but her body language says it all. She stiffens up a bit. I know she's seen self-harm before, but to what extent? Panic floods me. She's going to see this and lock me away. I'm going to have to call my boss from the looney tunes lock-up and tell him I can't be in tomorrow because I'm in a psychiatric prison. I tell her that I'm fine, I can be safe and that I won't be alone. She tells me that I really shouldn't be alone. I know that, but I want to be alone. I feel disgusting, vulnerable and what's worse, pathetic because I've bothered my therapist who's had to call in reinforcements to help my dumbass.
<<I fail to mention that it was indeed a suicide attempt. I don't want her to know. I'm ashamed. Now that it's a month on, I can let it out. I don't have to fear hospitalisation. It felt like I was floating out of my body like I was in a body of water or outer space. I felt like I could finally be happy as I was bleeding all over the duvet, sheets and wall. It felt like I was free of everything and it felt amazing. I wish I could feel that alive all the time. Or at least some part of the time. I don't want to be soft, I don't want to be empty. I just want to be something. Something more than I am. I don't know exactly what's wrong with me anymore. >>
I make it through the appointment and walk out into the cold. The air is a true breath of fresh relief. I don't know how I pulled that off. I hid the heaviness of my suicidal thoughts while getting out things that are bothering me, driving me to the edge of the cliff. My cuts are once again safely hidden in my sleeve, leaking through the shipping tape that I wrapped over them in the morning. I'd hit them at work and they started bleeding, I didn't want to have to mess with the first aid kit and have to worry about all that so I just taped the wounds shut using shipping tape. Not the best idea, but it was one that I could do myself and keep quiet about.
I wore short sleeves as my work shirt is short-sleeved and no one even noticed how I was cut up and bleeding. I thought someone would notice during the 7-hour shift, but no one did. It was something that I both wanted and didn't want. I wanted to hear that someone was worried that I had done that to myself; that I wasn't just expendable like I believe myself to be. On the other hand, I'm glad no one saw it so they couldn't run and tell Snuggles or Mr Clean and then I'd have to explain to them why my wrist was taped together. It would be less awkward with Snuggles as he's seen some of the cuts before but Mr Clean? He might just lose his shit on me. I can't have that.
I'm exhausted. I just want to go home and sleep. I want to be left alone. I can't be with anyone after this. A stranger, having to admit suicidal thoughts, having my vulnerability exposed. I don't want to be here even more than usual. Despite the cold, my cheeks are burning with embarrassment. Why do I have to be fucking like this?
*Name Change
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