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.
