In my last post on this I left the hospital realising I had made a pretty big mistake. The 8 months between that realisation and my next admission were, well, an experience. The potted version goes something like this: depression got worse, medication went up, depression slowly, slowly, painfully improved. After 4 months off work I returned full time, for the first time in 4 years (I went half time after D was born). Two of those months were reasonably ok, although there was the occasional wobble, then the downward slide began again, leading up to admission number 2.
This time was very, very different. Whereas before I was an emotional wreck, this time I was an emotionless zombie. This was the bubble at its worst. I was in and out of my GP’s office every week, and he was working really hard to get me an earlier appointment with the psychiatrist. We even thought about going privately if it would speed things up, but the earliest private appointment he could get for me was 3 months away. So we waited. And we waited. And eventually, things were taken out of my hands.
There were two key moments. The first was the day before I went in. I had driven into town to get dog food, parked, and then realised that I couldn’t actually get out of the car. I sat there for a few minutes, listening to Bitchface laugh at how ridiculous I was being, while at the same time powerless to do anything about it. I rang Hubby, who talked me down and stayed on the phone until he heard me getting out of the car and walking into the shop. I know I got myself home ok, although I remember very little about the rest of that day. One thing stands out very clearly though – as I got into bed that night, I remember thinking ‘fuck it. I don’t care any more. I cannot do this any more’. Quite simply, I gave up fighting.
The following morning I couldn’t get up. I just kept my eyes closed, pulled the covers over my head and stayed there. Eventually Hubby dragged me out of bed at about 11 and I took the kids out for a walk. When I came back, he put them in front of the tv and told me we had to talk. I’d had some bloods done in case there were any other underlying issues causing problems for me, and my GP had called with the results. Hubby had spoken with him and they had decided that it was time for A&E again, things had gone too far. After some hurried phone calls to arrange for someone to take the kids (thank you J!!) we both went down to the surgery. I’m very lucky in that I have a wonderful GP who takes his time and knows me well. He told me that the last time I’d seen him, a few days previously, I had scared him because I said I didn’t care any more. He’s not scared by people who talk about suicide, but he is scared when patients say they don’t care. So, he gave me a referral letter and off we went.
This time, Hubby was able to come with me, and I’m so grateful he was there. I was actually incapable of expressing myself properly at this stage and he had to do the talking for me. Again, we got through A&E very quickly, and there was a psychiatrist available immediately as my GP had rung ahead to let them know we were on the way. So back down to the ward we went, this time with the realisation that I had to stay. In a strange way it was a relief. There could be no denying how bad things were any more. I wasn’t making it all up, this was real and I desperately needed help. We desperately needed help. Hubby was at the end of his rope trying to figure out what to do, and I was gone far beyond knowing. This was the only option left open to us, we had tried everything else. So I stayed.