A week ago I saw my psychiatrist. Things were bad but to be honest they were no worse than they had been for a while. In fact, I felt slightly more in control than I had done for a little while. I told her about the overdose (the NHS is that joined up that she hadn’t been informed) and how I was planning on doing the same thing again as soon as I got the chance. All things I’ve said before. But something must have changed, the Crisis Team were mentioned, the word admission raised its head. But I didn’t understand, I was the same as I’d been for weeks, why would I suddenly get help now?
I went home fully expecting to hear nothing more about it and when it got to 5pm I started to relax, safe in the knowledge I’d been overlooked by the system one more time. 1730 and my phone buzzed. It’s the Crisis Team, can we come and assess you? I didn’t expect much from the encounter. Their previous advice on encountering me in an acutely suicidal state included go for a walk and go feed the ducks. Good for minor depression perhaps but hardly likely to be a lifesaver. Anyhow, I digress… We talked and I thought things were much as normal, some advice to read a book or go for a run was sure to follow. Something though was different and that admission word popped up again combined with the words “immediately” and “for your safety”. This wasn’t the plan. Not how things were meant to go at all. Where was the patronising self-help tips? The judgemental and snide remarks?
So I packed a bag. What does one need for incarceration in a psychiatric hospital? Some clothes, a book, my knitting. And there I was, being driven off to what, I didn’t really know and waiting for my thoughts to catch up with the speed of the change of direction of events.
‘Parts: the rest’ are to follow as and when I write them. I don’t want to stress myself too much by attempting to write everything at once.