This time three years ago I woke up in the psych unit of Galway University Hospital. I don’t remember a whole lot about that first night, or that first week. To be honest, I don’t remember a whole lot about the entire time I was there which is probably just as well. I know I was terrified of coming home, of what my future would be like. I felt safe in the hospital, because it meant I didn’t have to try anymore, and it was the trying that had become too much, the effort of functioning and maintaining some semblance of normality.
I’m tempted to get really angry and say that feck all has changed in the meantime – I’m on sick leave, again, I’m still fighting, I’m still waiting for the right treatment. But, the big difference is that I know what I’m up against. Three years ago we thought we were dealing with ‘just’ depression. I don’t say that lightly, depression is an absolute nightmare and so, so hard to get a handle on. But right the way through, depression was being exacerbated by borderline. Every time I got a handle on it, bpd would throw something else in my way and the wheels would fall off again.
It’s been such a long three years. I’m really proud of the progress I’ve made, despite the position I find myself in now. I was scared to come home, but I came home anyway, and we made it work. I’ve been through years of trial and error with drugs and fighting with public mental health services, while at the same time trying to function as a mother, a wife, an employee. I survived ending with Therapist. It’s probably just as well I didn’t know then how hard the next few years were going to be, I’d likely have asked them to lock me up and throw away the key.
I’d really like to think that I’m getting to the end of all this, that I won’t be writing a similar post in three years time. It’s been such a long road.