Part 4

Continued

Post 3 The Funny Farm (Part 2)

My stay in hospital lasted six weeks. Six weeks of solitary thinking time, a foreign and scary experience. Once out of the foggy vagueness induced by heavy sedation required to stablise a new patient suffering severe depression and anxiety, the realization hit me that most of my adult life has revolved around being as busy as I possibly can be. When you throw yourself into a career the way I did, you don’t have time to think about yourself or your needs. Add children into that busy career embroiled life and even during your sleep you are planning things. You don’t even realize that your thought patterns and actions might need to be questioned. If I did, some appropriate questions would have occurred to me, like why is my entire life being dedicated to the one business where I am treated so poorly and why do I think I can change a culture where I am the only person who sees that it needs to be changed. But now these questions come to me frequently and suddenly and there is no hiding from them. I have nothing to keep me busy, nothing to distract myself from the reality of my situation. 12 hours of my day I must think. I cannot read for longer than 10 minutes as my concentration doesn’t allow it. I don’t enjoy watching TV. My computer is and has always been a necessary companion but I have no work to do on it. So I began to research. More on that later….

It’s my last weekend in hospital and then we will move far away to a place that feels safe in an attempt to help my agoraphobia. I haven’t socialized since being in hospital. I’ve kept to myself, in my little room where no one can hurt me. I don’t trust anyone anymore. But now it feels like I should push myself to be around people because very soon I will not have the protection of hospital walls to hide behind. I can hear the guitar man playing in the meeting room down the hall. It must be Friday.  I’ve heard him play from my room but have never gone along to watch. I have wanted to join in because I love music but being there will remind me of what I used to do and the career I no longer have. I gingerly walk down the hallway and am glad to see that the meeting room still has plenty of vacant lounge chairs. The music man offers me a song sheet. I feel the panic rising within me as I realize the expectation of patients to sing along as he strums. Oh dear, what have I committed myself to. I will sit quietly and anonymously and hope that nobody notices me. I look around the room and everyone looks relaxed and happily singing to the music. I wonder with empathy about how these people have ended up in a psychiatric ward meeting room like me. My guard is slipping away as I begin to feel unthreatened in this environment. And surprisingly, especially to me, by song number three, I’m there, singing and feeling the music as if there is no one else in the room. The song is “Fuckin Perfect” by Pink, and this is the first time I’ve paid attention to the lyrics. I feel the song with every emotion in my body.  It’s as if my body is making up for years of suppressed emotions and feelings and I don’t care who is listening or watching. Living in survival mode for so many years required me to develop a bullet proof exterior, a tough outer shell that revealed no weakness. Harassment and mistreatment was so commonplace that I had stopped recognizing it. I never allowed myself to cry or get upset because it would show vulnerability. Even in my private life my emotions were controlled and bottled up. It is strange to me to feel these strong emotions of sadness and grief, and I hope one day I will feel equal amounts of peace and happiness. It will take a very long time.

It’s almost Christmas and it feels like I am a long way from the people who can hurt me now. I’m starting to feel like myself again and am looking forward to spending some time with the family in our new house after such a long time in hospital. I am convinced that I am on top of my problems and that life can return to normal. I am told I am to receive an email regarding my employer and I say I’m ready….bring it on. Nothing can hurt me now.

The email arrives and I read with interest. But I’m not ready and the contents rips me to the core. It is personal, it is attacking and it is ruthless. I was not ready and I am deeply wounded but I keep my feelings to myself because I’m an expert at hiding emotions, plus it’s Christmas and I don’t want to upset anyone. Everyone is celebrating and it’s easy to join in. I haven’t touched alcohol since May, but EVERYONE drinks at Christmas. One drink leads to two. This is good…it numbs the pain. Two drinks leads to three. By early January I take every opportunity to drink. I know that mixing my medication with alcohol is risky.  I’m hurting so badly emotionally that I feel compelled to hurt myself psychically. Drinking excessively on this medication can cause you to go into a comma. I know this and I drink more, and eat less. I want to punish myself so I stop eating altogether and drinking, drinking, I’m despising myself and I can’t hide my emotions any longer. I’m out of control and I need help urgently….I am suicidal.

The next hospital stay was a very different experience to the first. This one was in the public system and the rules are very different. No phone, no computer, no plastic bags, no hairdryer. I arrive with only the clothes on my back so I am issued with men’s pajamas 5 sizes too big and a stick with a ration of toothpaste. I have a shower and lie in my bed, cold and frightened while patients yell and scream and snore around me. I am sharing a room with Grace, a young Asian girl who has a fear of Indian doctors. She argues with the nurses a lot and believes she is not being properly treated. She stares at me and I want her to go away. A male patient paces the ward for hours. I hear his footsteps getting louder and louder, then softer as he gets further away and I hope that will be his last circuit, but it doesn’t end. There is no hope of me getting to sleep so I walk to the nurses desk and ask for a sleeping tablet. They refuse my request and I am forced to go back to my bed and stare at the ceiling and wait. I decide that I must convince the doctor in the morning that I’m fine to go home. I’m scarred and cold and lonely.

I dress myself in the morning, back in the same clothes as yesterday which seems marginally better than the men’s PJ’s. I make myself some wheatbix, the first meal I’ve eaten in several days but I decide I need to pull myself together in order to be allowed to go home.

When the Indian psychiatrist, calls me in to see him I realize why Grace was struggling to convince the hospital that she should be let free! The doctor wants to hear my story and so I give him the short version. I explain that although I was suicidal yesterday, I’m feeling much better today and would really like to go home. The doctor is unconvinced that I could have such a quick recovery and tells me I’m to stay for the weekend. I’m devastated. So when my husband arrives I plead with him to talk to the doctor and get me out. As we sat there on my hospital bed an aboriginal woman attempts to escape through the exit door next to my room. Several nurses run to stop her and grab her by both arms, picking her up so she cannot run. “The doctor has been shot. He’s in my room and there is blood everywhere and I have to get away” she yelled as they carried her back to her room. This incident was enough to convince my husband that I couldn’t stay at this place. He arranged an urgent meeting with the doctor and he whisked me out of there within half an hour.

Weekly psychiatrist and psychologist appointments were arranged and I had all alcohol removed from the house. I realized that alcohol had the ability to make me weak, much like the harassment and bullying. I made the decision that I would make myself strong and healthy and would take on the battle to right the wrongs. I have been exposed to an unsafe working environment which has made me very very sick. This was not my fault and I will not punish myself any longer.

I started running, going to the gym, eating very healthy food and getting lots of sleep. But even with a healthy body, my mind was craving something more.  I started researching history, philosophy, astro physics, the news, but nothing quite fulfilled the empty feeling. I felt like I needed to really believe in something but I wasn’t sure what, which is when I came across Buddhism. I had read about Buddhism a few years ago but never really got very involved. But this time the Buddhist values and beliefs seemed perfectly aligned with my own so I wanted to learn more. I started attending teachings and found myself enjoying everything that I learned. Finally I was experiencing some inner peace. And even though I was being sent to doctors and being told that I had permanent psychological damage, I was comforted by my Buddhist beliefs. It was then that I decided that while I could not control the permanent damage inflicted upon me, what I could do is permanently scar myself in my own way so I got a tattoo of the Buddhist Om between my shoulder blades to remind me that I am in control of my own feelings and I can overcome all of the psychological obstacles placed in my path. It is my personal symbol of strength that reminds me that happiness comes from within, and reminds me about the importance and power of mindfulness.

Post 2 - The Funny Farm

This post is best read after my post labelled " Shattered by Workplace Bullying"

Wikipedia: "Funny Farm" can refer to:

• Funny farm, a pejorative slang term for a psychiatric hospital

• By extension, pejorative slang for many workplaces which are perceived to be dysfunctional

By the time it is suggested that you spend some time in a psychiatric hospital (due to a dysfunctional workplace), you realise the gravity of your situation. In my case my mind was no longer capable of producing positive thoughts. I could no longer engage in conversation with anyone, without moments of extreme anxiety and panic. I had become a recluse, only leaving the house to go to the gym (for stress relief) and to pick up my kids from the bus stop (because I had to).  Anything more that those tasks potentially created panic attacks so I had become almost completely agoraphobic finding enjoyment in nothing at all. I was nervous most of the time. When I did leave the house, I looked over my shoulders constantly to check if there were any looming threats and would lie awake at night thinking something dreadful was about to happen, a symptom I later found out, of post traumatic stress disorder. 

I found it difficult to concentrate on even the most simple tasks. I remember the day that my son and I had some time alone together. He had spent several hours devising a new game with lego, carefully typing and printing a rule book, and so excited to spend some time with mum trialing his creation. But his excitement faded into disappointment only 5 minutes into the game. “Come on mum, it’s your turn”, I looked at him blankly. I could not remember what he had shown me to do just minutes before. I was completely preoccupied and stuck in rumination that I could not retain any more information. My thoughts were fuzzy and distant and around this time I often felt as if my mind had drifted away from my body in some sort of survival mode similar to the day of my breakdown, because reality had become too painful.  I had been aware of this survival mode for sometime now but had managed to hide it from the family. It seemed selfish of me to be so distracted and depressed. I have such a beautiful loving family. But by now it had become my default mode to be distant and non responsive and it was in full view of those around me.

“I think it might be helpful if you spend a couple of days in hospital” my psychologist said gingerly, expecting kicking and screaming and insistence that I’m fine. I sobbed openly this time, but to the surprise of both the psychologist and my husband, I did not protest at all. These were tears of complete and utter relief, admission that I desperately needed help, that I’m not coping at all and I don’t like my family seeing me like this. I had to admit that I was drowning, and treading water had become a futile effort.  Just as I was starting to give in to the exhaustion and beginning to sink below the surface there was a lifeline, new hope that someone might show me how to save myself. “I think I’m ready for some help.”

Now I’m no expert when it comes to mental health issues, but what happened next was something that might have been avoided. My husband made the phone call to the hospital and insisted that I needed an urgent admission, worried that at any moment I would change my mind . The director of the hospital was due to call him back but it was me who answered the phone call, “We have some bad news for you….” That’s all I heard. There was some mix up with our health fund that was later sorted out, but it’s the “bad news” bit that didn’t sit well with me. My husband found me on the bed in the fetal position sobbing uncontrollably. “How can she say, “we have bad news” to someone so desperately depressed that they need hospitalization?” I sobbed to him. And I didn’t stop sobbing until I was sedated and put to bed that afternoon in the hospital bed. 

Stilnox is an interesting drug that made me sleep in a way I hadn’t slept for years. This was a deep, comatose state that I would drift in and out of for several days. Having become accustomed to light, interrupted sleep patterns without REM this restful sleep was a welcome change. I was enjoying the vivid dreams that had been absent in my sleep for as long as I can remember. 

On day 2 a strange thing happened. It was time for bed so I took a long warm shower after dinner and put on some comfy PJ’s then hopped into my bed feeling quite content in my new surroundings and slipping into the ease of having NO responsibilities.  I took my Stilnox at about 10 O’clock that night and before I knew it, it was 9 O’clock the next morning. I woke up, still in my bed but completely clothed, in tracksuit pants, a t-shirt, jacket and jogging shoes. In my cupboard were my PJ’s neatly folded and my only guess is that while under the influence of Stilnox I had decided it was morning and got myself dressed then decided to hop back into bed. At least, that's what I'm hoping, though it's never been confirmed!

I mentioned this incident in a group therapy session the next day, only to find out I was not alone. Several of the other patients had stories of things they had done on Stilnox that they didn’t remember but that they had evidence of the next morning, similar to my experience.  So I came up with a theory that the nurses medicated all the patients with Stilnox at 10pm then waited till we all fell into a stilnox trance and sat around laughing and drinking bourbon while telling us all to do silly party tricks like they do in shows when people get hypnotized. As I voiced my theory to the group the facilitating psychologist scribbled down lots of notes in his notepad then looked at me with piercing eyes. I don’t think he realized I was joking, and was probably jotting something next to my name about possible dilutional episodes…”Alcohol is a banned substance on the hospital grounds” he said dismissively. 

On day 3, I woke up and decided to get myself some breakfast. I always preferred to eat meals in my bedroom, because although I felt quite safe in the sanctuary of the hospital, the agoraphobia had set in and I had troubles trusting anybody or wanting to talk about my “stuff”. After breakfast I lay on my bed while I drank a coffee. I was only half way through my coffee and rested it on my chest while I shut my eyes for what I thought was a moment. I awoke when my husband arrived to visit me 4 hours later with the cold, half finished coffee still resting on my chest! He sat and tried to talk to me as I drifted in and out of slumber land, dribbling and slurring my speech, I tried to pretend I’d heard everything he had said, but really I had no idea. He said it was the most peaceful sleep he’d seen me have in a very long time, and he was right, sleep had become my new best friend as my body tried to repair from complete exhaustion.

By the end of the first week, I was no longer on stilnox but had been put on increased levels of antidepressant medication both morning and night with various sedatives available on request and things became fairly routine for the next few weeks. But it was about the 4^th week when things went really pair-shaped. I was no longer feeling overly safe in the hospital. I missed my family and my dogs and was having dreadful headaches and nightmares. I can’t complain about the hospital at all. All of the staff were very pleasant and friendly but I was reluctant to leave my room at all other than to get myself breakfast and dinner. I skipped lunch altogether to avoid a third trip out of my room. Apart from that I only left the room to visit the hospital psychiatrist and psychologist as instructed. I had become very tired again with the broken sleep and nightmares. When I visited my psychiatrist he prescribed stilnox again and told me to visit the nurses desk that night when I was ready to go to sleep. I did as he said and arrived at the nurse’s desk at 10pm. Another patient was already waiting at the desk to complain about her roommate being too noisy. We chatted while the nurses got me my medication and when the nurse returned with my pills I headed back down the hallway looking forward to a good night sleep as I swallowed my pills followed by a big gulp of water. And as I gulped on the water I heard a frantic voice yelling out my name down the hallway….”STOP!! Don’t take the pills!” I turned around as the gulp of water hit my stomach, stunned by the instruction. “What do you mean?” I said. “You didn’t take them did you?”. “Yes, I did” I said suddenly feeling nervous. “Oh my God. OK, just wait here a minute” she said as she disappeared into the back of the nurses station where they lock away all of the medication. The senior nurse was at the back of the station and I could hear my nurse saying “I’m so sorry, I must have mixed them up, I don’t know how I did it. Oh my God, I’m so sorry!!” The girl who was waiting to complain about her noisy roommate looked at me with a sympathetic gaze. “Wow! You look really calm for someone who’s just taken the wrong medication. I wonder what you took! Doesn’t sound good. I think I might go back to my room now. Good luck, hope to see you tomorrow.”  “Yeah, let’s hope so” I said shakily, as my nurse reappeared looking sweaty and flustered. “Um, it’s ok. Head back to your room and we’ll be down in a few minutes to have a chat.”

While outwardly I guess you could say I took it very calmly, on the inside however, my mind was racing a million miles an hour.

“WTF….go back to my room??” was what I wanted to say. But instead I turned and almost sprinted back to my room. I had overheard the words “MS Contin” from the nurses station so I wasted no time and jumped straight onto my laptop and googled MS CONTIN and orange-coloured tablet” as I had noticed it’s unusual colour before I swallowed it. The google search results were no more comforting than the nurse’s apologies:

The drug I had taken was 60mg of MORPHINE and the drug came with a big warning:  These tablet strengths (100, 200mgs) may cause fatal respiratory depression when administered to patients not previously exposed to opioids.

I could feel the colour drain from my face and by the time I’d finished reading the warning my nurse reappeared trying to act calm, clearly unaware of my ultra fast googling skills. “We’ve given you quite a strong pain medication as well as your stilnox by mistake. She giggled nervously in a failed attempt to lighten the mood, “you’re really going to sleep well tonight!! Now it’s ok, we just need to check on you every hour through the night. We will check your heart rate and vital signs but with all that medication you will be asleep through it all so don’t worry.” Meanwhile I was thinking “why don’t you just tell me straight…you are worried I might stop breathing…fatal respiratory depression”. “Yes, ok” I said wondering why I was continuing to act so calmly when inside I was beside myself with worry. When the nurse left I called my husband. It was now 11pm so he was surprised and concerned to get my call , “Hi it’s me. Look I don’t want you to worry but I thought you should know there’s been a medication mix up here at the hospital.” I said, sounding about as convincing as the nurse, “I’m just telling you incase I get rushed to emergency during the night, but they think I should be alright, they just need to check on me quite regularly.” I guess my calm tone was unconvincing “They WHAT??? What medication have they given you???” “Oh, I believe it’s morphine. But they seem to have it under control.” I replied trying to sound nonchalant. “MORPHINE! They gave you MORPHINE by MISTAKE? How much?” “Well, they didn’t say, but I googled it and it seems to be a bit below the potentially fatal amount, so that’s a good thing.” He wasn’t buying my “glass half full” attitude. I was starting to wish I had worded things a little differently, more like the nurse had done and leave out the “fatal” bit.

Needless to say that much to the surprise and amazement of the night time nurses, I was wide awake for every hourly check, “Hi, I would say…I’m still alive!” (wondering to myself whether I was ruining the Stilnox/bourbon party that night by staying awake!!) Then she would walk in with her torch to check my pulse. They said it would be almost impossible to stay awake with the cocktail of morphine and stilnox but I was too anxious to allow myself to drift off. I was petrified to close my eyes incase I slipped into a coma (which was another warning I read about after the nurse left the room, and I’d finished scaring the wits out of my husband). It’s all well and good to come and check on me for 5 mins once an hour. But what about the other 55 mins!! Seemed all too risky to me so I just didn’t allow myself to sleep which as it turned out wasn’t as hard as it sounds given that I had an allergic reaction to the morphine which made me wildly itchy to the point where I had scratched myself to pieces and had hot red welt marks all over my chest and back. The next morning I got up to have a shower but could not stand up unassisted. The whole next day I felt completely “out of it” with waves of dizziness and nausea followed by a painful headache as I apparently “came down” off the morphine.

Once over the whole ordeal, I decided to do a bit of laundry so headed to the communal washing machine. The girl from the nurses station happened to be doing her ironing. "Hi, I made it through the night" I said with a bit of a cheeky grin. She looked at me, cocked her head to the side, "I'm sorry...do I know you?". That's the thing about psychiatric hospitals, people often don't remember what they've said or done depending on what stage of sedation they are under. "Never mind" I said and went back to my little room. It was easier than trying to explain. 

I’d like to make you feel better about this incident by saying, I’m sure it’s a rare mistake for the wrong medication to be administered in a hospital. And of course, it didn't help matters that this mistake was made on a patient already highly paranoid about their personal safety to the point of agoraphobia. That’s certainly what I  was hoping would be the case. All the day time nurses kind of skirted around the elephant in the room when they came to visit me the next day. But the afternoon nurse was very honest. “I heard you were given 60mg morphine by mistake last night….bet you had a shit day?” “Yes, I’ve felt quite ill” “Don’t worry” she said “it happens all the time. You’d be surprised though, it takes a lot of medication to actully kill someone.” I guess that’s comforting in some strange way….

Post 1 - Shattered by Workplace Bullying

Day 331 since my world collapsed. My life as I knew it slipped away from under my feet. Everything I knew was turned upside down and I was about to commence on an unfamiliar journey involving unimaginable changes. Things would never be the same again. I thought I was strong enough to cope with the treatment I had received for many years. I thought that being alienated and targeted by my peers and boss was something I just had to put up with and soldier on. I'd been fighting off my emotions for so many years that I had convinced myself that I was unbreakable. But I was wrong....apparently the human body IS breakable in more ways than are visible to the eye. Most doctors call it a psychological injury, I call it a broken spirit. 

"I was the target of workplace bullying!" There you go, I've said it. It's taken me nearly a year to use those words, but now I can do it.  I still struggle to use the word "victim"because even though I know better (due to intensive weekly, sometimes bi-weekly therapy and long term hospitalisation) the word "victim" still infers weakness in my mind so I steer away from it. The thing is that I don't consider myself weak, rather the contrary. I was strong enough to endure humiliation, intimidation and isolation for longer than I imagine most people would. I was strong right to the very end. Even as I collapsed on my way to work unable to walk or coherently talk, I still insisted that I should somehow work. I needed to work. There was so much work that needed to be done. If only I could stop the uncontrollable tears (something very foreign to me as I didn't EVER cry) and control my legs in order to stand up, then surely I could fix myself up in the bathroom and soldier on. But my body was not under my brain's control anymore at all and no matter how much I willed myself to pull it together, it didn't happen.  It was as if my brain was a puzzle that had been thrown up into the air and dropped onto the ground. Pieces were scattered everywhere and it would be a long, slow process to figure out how they would all go back together.

But there were many signs that things weren't right that morning before arriving in the car to my workplace. There is still a whole section of that morning that I don't remember. It's as if something snapped in my brain during the night and when I woke my mind had left my body. But I wasn't asleep very long if at all that night because I can clearly remember spending most of the night pacing the house, ruminating about the events at work the day before, where a series of bullying incidents had escalated beyond anything that had happened previously. I was used to feeling like the faithful dog who was forever working for a little pat on the head, but instead each time I tried harder I was kicked into the dirt.  I would get back up, dust myself off and find something else to achieve in hope that things would change, forever the optimist. But this time it was a sucker punch to the guts, the kind that causes permanent damage. The kind you don't recover from....

As I paced the house my mind was racing, my body was shaking. I had reached a point where I didn't know what to do and I was scared and hurt and I was annoyed with myself because I was out of solutions. I must think of something before the morning. I looked at the clock and it was 3am. I'd been pacing and searching for 5 hours and I didn't have the answers. 4am, I need to try to get some sleep. After that things went blank. My husband has filled in the gaps of the first few hours of the morning. I was unable to shower or dress myself, he had to help me. The first I remember of the morning is walking into the kitchen and my two children looked at me in a very strange way, as if they didn't recognise the person they were looking at. They looked scared and worried which confused me and made me feel disoriented. I couldn't stand up for long. I was weak and hadn't eaten properly for a few days, something that I had started to do as I became more and more unhappy with myself and my life. I sat down and started to cry and I couldn't stop. I was exhausted.    

My husband knew I was in no shape to drive so he bundled me into the passenger seat and  we dropped the kids off to school. I shudder to think back what was going through their minds that morning. I wish they never saw what they did, but it was only the beginning. After the kids, we drove to the car park of my workplace. My husband could see there was no hope of getting me out of the car. He called a colleague to come out and see us. She immediately knew things were grim and had a quiet word to him on the side. He immediately started making phone calls and I could hear him asking for an emergency medical appointment. I insisted that I'd be ok. I just needed a few minutes to gather my thoughts. Deep down I knew that wasn't true because my head was spinning so fast that I was dizzy and nauseous. My thoughts were disjointed and confused and the more I tried to decipher them, the more I started to panic. My heart was racing so quickly that it felt like my body could not keep up. I was struggling to breathe. My hands were sweaty and trembling. Panic overtook my whole body with such force that it wasn't until we drove out of the car park and several kilometres down the road that I could start to breathe normally again. 

The doctor asked me many questions and I answered as best I could until the last question. "Have you had any thoughts of suicide?". The room went completely quiet. I felt myself starting to panic again. This is not a question anyone would like to answer with your life partner sitting next to you. I had to tell the truth. While pacing the house for hours on end, ruminating about the bullying, alienation and intimidation, knowing that our mortgage depended on my salary, searching for a solution but nothing came, the thought of checking out had become a desperate option. I lowered my head in shame and answered the question. 

My doctor  seemed shocked by the description I gave of the previous day at work and the state that I was in. I was sent home to rest and an urgent appointment was booked with a psychologist for the first available time The doctor insisted that I rest and that my husband screen all phone calls to ensure no more stress could reach me. I felt a comforting moment in the middle of the turmoil. I felt an unfamiliar feeling of protection, as if my doctor and my husband were providing a temporary safety zone around me. For the first time in such a long time I could let my guard down just for a little while.  Lying in my bed I sank into a coma-like state for several days wondering how my life had come to this. I was conscious but unable to sleep or eat, I was not capable of reading, listening to music or watching TV because my senses were on overload. My brain was chattering so loudly and relentlessly that I could not cope with any other sound or stimulus. I lay for hours on end day after day in my bed, hoping for a break from the chatter. Every inch of my body was exhausted to the point where I felt physical pain through most of my body. I tried not to move around as it hurt too much and I started to think that maybe I had cancer or some horrible disease because the pain was becoming agonising. My children came to visit me in my bed every few hours over the weekend and after school. They would kiss me on the forehead and give me handmade cards wishing me to get well. I would smile and thank them and pretend that I was ok, but I had no conversation to offer, I was too exhausted to speak.

Now, 331 days since my initial collapse, my mind is finally at a point where I can verbalise what has happened. I can discuss my story without shame and embarrassment. Ok, not totally without these things, but I'm working on it. Previously I was a senior manager working very long hours and with very big responsibilities. Now, 331 days later I am still unfit to work, suffering extreme anxiety and depression and stabilised by strong medication both morning and night. So this is my blog, my own form of therapy as I embark on the biggest challenge of all, finding justice and attempting to prevent others from shattering into a million pieces like I did. Now that I am learning to care about myself again, instead of loathing and harming myself I am working on loving myself and my life and discovering that I do have rights. In fact, there is a "Bill of Basic Human Rights" that was explained to me by one of my treating doctors:

1. The right to act in ways that promote your dignity and self respect (as long as others' rights are not violated in the process)
2. The right to be treated with respect
3. The right to say 'No' and not feel guilty
4. The right to experience and express your feelings
5. The right to take time to slow down and think
6. The right to change your mind
7. The right to ask for what you want
8. The right to do less than you are humanly capable of doing
9. The right to ask for information
10. The right to make mistakes
11. The right to feel good about yourself.  
Source: Jacobowski & Lange. The assertive option

To most people, I'm guessing these things are fairly obvious, but to someone who has worked in a culture for many years that does not respect any of these rights, you forget that you have them. There is so much I have leant in the past 331 days. 

But that's all I can write for today, because it's our wedding anniversary and we are going out to dinner, the four of us. That is something I haven't done in a long time due to a lengthy  battle with agoraphobia. I'm feeling the anxiety growing inside me now as I prepare myself for the event. Last time I attempted going out to dinner it was sadly spoilt by stomach pains caused by extreme anxiety. But I'm determined to make progress so I'm trying again.  

"Entangled by the bonds of hate, he who seeks his own happiness by inflicting pain on others, is never delivered from hatred.~ Dhammapada 291"