Traces of Nuts

The first time I was hospitalised, when I was about 17, I started hearing voices. Well, to be more specific I started hearing a robot voice.

I tried to ignore it at first. Get on with things. Go about my business. But this robot voice was every where I went. In my room, in the dining area, in the halls. This voice was starting to (if you’ll excuse the irony) drive me completely insane. I began to feel more and more dejected. Here I was. In a psychiatric institution. Hearing voices.

Then I became angry. I couldn’t even understand what the damn thing was saying.  I couldn’t even be a normal crazy person.  Someone who could actually understand their stupid voices. This is ridiculous!

One day I was waiting for a group session to start when I heard the robot talking again. I decided I had to settle this matter once and for all. I turned to the guy next to me and asked him:

 “Did you just hear that robot voice?!”

He looked vaguely startled and looked around. “Robot voice?”

“There it is again!” I exclaimed. “See! That robot voice! Please tell me you can hear it! I’m being driven insane. I know I shouldn’t say that here...but seriously....can you hear it?”.  

It was then that he burst out laughing. “That’s Harold!” he told me, in between snorts. “He’s had a tracheotomy, he speaks through a tube. I guess he does sound a bit like a robot.”

We were both silent for a moment. “Well that’s a relief,” I finally said. “For the last week I have been convinced I was hearing robot voices”.

Oh we laughed and laughed after that. I felt a huge range of things. Guilty for starters (poor Harold!), embarrassed, but most of all relieved. THANK GOD! I wasn’t crazy. Well, at least not in that way.

But this experience got me thinking. What is crazy anyway? Do you know if you are crazy? I’ve heard that the craziest people often believe they are sane. But sane people can think they are crazy too. Are you crazy if you are sane but think you’re crazy? Who defines it? Where is the line between crazy and sane?

One day, in the MBU, I was trying to make some lunch for David. Another patient was experiencing a manic episode and was pestering me, talking a mile a minute, following me around the kitchen. In between peals of laughter she managed to say “wow! You must really think I’m crazy!”
“Yes,” I responded rather grumpily. To my surprise she just burst out laughing again.
“That’s because I am!” she sung, before waltzing outside to the garden.

She certainly thought she was. Did I think I was crazy? I’m not sure. Do I now? I don’t know. What I do know, is that the deterioration of mental health results in a need for intervention. Some people resist it, but I was open to it. Perhaps that was the sanest part of my condition. I believe that everyone has their own eccentricities, some are just more obvious than others. I believe eccentricities need only be a negative thing should they threaten the wellbeing or reputations of themselves or the people around them.

Although I can’t define what I was before, at this point in time I’ll conclude that for now I’m swinging around the ‘normal’ end of the continuum. Normal. With traces of nuts ;)

Girls, Interrupted.

Having spent a fair amount of time at the MBU, I was able to see many different women come and go. As much as I was happy for the women that were discharged, I was hit by unexpected jealousy as well. Jealousy and then self incrimination. “What is wrong with me?! What can’t I get my act together and get better like everyone else?!”.

But aside from that, what struck me was just how different we all were. I began to see that postnatal mental illness spared no one. No cohort, no demographic group, nobody. There were older women, first time mums, black women, white women, Catholics, Muslims, professionals, teenagers, city women, country women, single parents, smokers, vegetarians and everyone in between. This is why I feel it is so important for EVERYONE to be aware of mental illness, particularly in the postnatal period. You never think it’s going to be you. Your partner. Your daughter. Your mother.

Anyway, although I was in the MBU for a significant amount of time, there was one woman, let’s call her Sophie, who had been there longer. We didn’t really speak much, but we were always kind of aware of each other. Every time I had a meltdown I’d glance around and see her in the background, pretending to ignore me. But that’s ok I pretended to ignore a few of her outbursts too.

One night, increasingly frustrated by my lack of sleep, I stormed out to the nurses station to try and get some sleeping pills. Sophie was waiting there too and we awkwardly stood next to each other for a few minutes.

Finally Sophie asked: “can’t sleep?”.

“What’s sleep?” I replied with a wry smile. Sophie laughed and then gestured to our dressing gowns.

“We should swap” she said. I looked down and noticed we were both wearing purple gowns. She was short in stature and wearing a long gown trailing the ground, I’m tall and was wearing a short gown cropped below the knee. I laughed and then saw the nurses arriving back at the station.

“You should take this,” she said, thrusting a magazine into my hands. “If you can’t sleep. It always helps me sleep.”  I thanked her. I was willing to do anything to get some sleep, and read whatever this magazine may be.

Later back in my room, having been denied medication, I took out the magazine and started to read. And would you believe it? I actually fell asleep! I kept it in my room for emergencies. Nightmares. Insomnia. It was a first aid kit for the weary. When I left the MBU I made sure to leave my magazine on the nightstand, just in case someone else should need it.

Sophie and I were both discharged within days of each other. I still think about her a lot, and I hope that she is doing well.

The magazine? It turned out to be a Coles advertising booklet. Perhaps it was the boredom of reading it that worked so well for us. Or perhaps it was just the comfort of knowing someone else was going through the same thing. Either way, I do remember having a fair few dreams about cooking... ;)

What's your status?

Yesterday, during an appointment with my psychologist at the hospital, it came to light that I was apparently an involuntary patient under the Mental Health Act for a period of time during my hospital stay. To say I was surprised is an understatement. I assured my psychologist she was mistaken, until she read out my file notes from my doctor at the MBU.

“Rachael was an inpatient at the MBU for two months, much of the time under one to one supervision and under the Mental Health Act”.

The thing is, I don’t remember that at all. I remember being threatened with the Mental Health Act should I worsen, resist treatment or abscond. But that’s about it. Other patients who were of involuntary status seemed to be aware of it. I certainly wasn’t. 

But then again, I wasn’t aware of much. I wasn’t aware that I was on one to one supervision until one day another patient asked my nurse for something. My nurse declined and the patient glanced at me and asked “oh, are you still on one to one supervision?”. It was only then I looked around and realised that I was the only patient with a nurse chained to my side all day. For most of my time in the MBU, the unit was in 'lockdown'. I didn't even realize that the unit could be unlocked until the end of my stay. It was only at then that I realized that the  lockdown  everyone complained about was initiated because of me (along with another patient). Sorry guys! 

The fact that I had psychosis adds another layer of complexity to the whole issue. Trying to piece together fragmented memories is difficult enough, but trying to remember when you are not even sure what was real and what wasn’t is nearly impossible.

I spent a few hours yesterday afternoon researching the matter. Trawling through pages and pages of government documents, searching through the endless 1996 Mental Health Act, trying to find anything that would give me some answers. Surely I would need to fill out a form? Or Steven would need to be aware?

My search was inconclusive. The complexities of the system are really beyond my patience. Is written evidence from my doctor enough for me to believe what happened? It should be, but somehow it’s not. A written report should stand firm against the unreliable memory of a psychotic patient. But this is me, not just anyone. Surely I should remember something.

I know that most people reading this will think ‘well what does it matter?’ I went into hospital, I came out of hospital, I’m feeling better, are the specific details of my stay really that important?

But to me they are. To me there is a big difference between seeking help voluntarily, and being treated as an involuntary patient. The legalities of my treatment matter. What happened to me matters. But most of all it matters that I can’t seem to trust my own memories and recollections.

Who do I believe? Me or them? Who do you believe?

New

This week was one of those annoying weeks where everything seemed to go wrong. Broken plates, broken appliances, broken sleep, missed appointments, sick printers, forgotten forms, lost pieces of priceless jewelery. You name it, it happened. 

I wouldn’t say it was a ‘bad’ week as such. Just an incredibly annoying one.

I had one of those familiar “fuck it all” moments the other day. Skidding around the kitchen, trying to mop up chocolate covered water from the dishwasher with a freshly laundered towel on a freshly mopped kitchen floor, listening to a screaming baby. Fuck. It. All.

But today is a new start. It’s been a cracker of a week, and a hell of a year, but I’m ready to leave that behind and start fresh. It’s my birthday next week, and for my present my mum has bought me a haircut. For the first time in a long time I’m going to chop it off. Not *really* short, but shorter than it is now. I like my long hair, but the truth is, I don’t have the time or energy to spend styling it each morning. It generally gets clipped back, tied back and otherwise neglected. I’m looking forward to something a little less high maintenance! I also splurged on some new dresses and jewellery. Something I very rarely do.  I’m generally a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl, but with summer coming up I figured it would be nice to have some pretty dresses.

  I have also spring cleaned the house, weeded the garden, changed the layout of the living room and bought a new rug. I’ve planted my favorite herbs outside, and I’ve started buying my fruit and vegetables from local farmers at the markets. I’ve gotten myself into a household routine that works.

This all probably seems fairly insignificant. But you see, more than anything I need a CHANGE. I want to physically separate the ‘old’ me from the ‘new’ me. I’m happy, I’m in control, and I want that to be represented in the way I present myself, and in the environment I live in. I want a fresh start.

Now let’s just pray that the hairdresser doesn’t destroy my hair today ;)

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch...

Today marks the end of my journey with the Mother and Baby Unit. My doctor saw me as an outpatient for a number of months following my discharge as she wanted to make sure I was doing ok at home. But David is now one, and I have been stable, and it was time to be referred back to my local mental health team.

Today was the day I was to have an appointment with the new Psychiatrist that was going to be taking over my care. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Due to the experiences I had before my hospitalisation I am wary of medical professionals – particularly those in mental health. Would they take me seriously? Would they screw around with my medication? Would they be nice?

Furthermore, my appointment was at my local hospital whose service has not impressed me over the past 18 months. This is the hospital where I was told (in the midst of a mixed psychotic episode) that I didn’t need hospitalisation, only a good night sleep. Indeed it is the very same hospital that I called during my labour with David, only to be told to take a Panadol and have a bath. It’s a good thing that we ignored that advice, because when I arrived we found out I was half way to having a baby, and the contractions were coming quick and strong. Naturally the birth suites were full, and I needed to be transferred to a different hospital, but the doctor was then concerned that I wouldn’t make the ambulance ride. I was told I may have to deliver in the waiting room, with no epidural (“this was not in my birth plan!!!” I couldn’t help thinking ;)). Fortunately for everyone my labour stalled, I was successfully transferred to a different hospital and I even got an epidural. No thanks to my local hospital though. Do I sound resentful? Perhaps a tad ;)

  Anyway. Back to today. I went to the appointment feeling rather stand offish and cross about things. I was on the offense and I wasn’t afraid to let ‘them’ know about it. The doctor called me up by my middle name, which wasn’t a great start. But there was something profoundly kind about this woman, and for the life of me I couldn’t stop myself from telling her everything. To open up to someone so quickly is very unusual for me. I talked and talked so much that when Steven came to pick me up my voice was hoarse. Ok, so admittedly I am still recovering from laryngitis...but you get the idea ;))

At the end of it she asked me how it had been. I was honest with her and told her that I had had deep reservations about coming, I told her about my experience with the other doctor. I explained to her that when I am depressed I don’t tend to show the emotion that other people seem to. I don’t tend to cry or even talk much. I will just state that I feel depressed, and because actions speak louder than words, I didn’t seem to receive the help I needed.

To my surprise she told me that she had dealt with many individuals that show little emotion, and that ‘Depression’ is about far more than feeling sad. She told me it was about an inability to sleep, to concentrate, to make decisions, to engage in life. She assured me that she was taking me seriously, and from her notes from the mother and baby unit and from what I had talked about she felt that I had been to hell and back. She told me how sorry she was that I had been through this, and how sorry she was that their service had let me down.

I think that’s what I really wanted. To tell someone at the hospital what had happened and for them to acknowledge it. I hope that by telling someone, perhaps someone else out there won’t slip through the cracks. Not everyone who needs help wears their heart on their sleeve.

All in all I feel good about the appointment. My new doctor is lovely, and I’m confident that with time I will trust her in the way I trusted my old doctor. To my surprise I was also given a medication voucher for the pharmacy, so I can get all my medications for free! This was a huge relief since we were paying almost $100 a month on pills.

 To be honest with you, although I have had some bad experiences with our mental health service, I’ve had some really good ones too. The hospital and all of my doctor and psychologist appointments have been free of charge. I received free childcare and now free medications. People say there is no such thing as a free lunch...but I guess sometimes there is. And I know I’m grateful for it! :)

Hospital Visit

 I think that when you’re a mum, you just KNOW when your child isn’t well. When there is something more serious than the average cough or cold going on. I think as a parent you have an instinct.

This week I had a suspicion something wasn’t right with David. On Monday I worried when I dropped him off at daycare, and called from the uni to see how he was. When we took him home that night he was frantic. Screaming, writhing, thrashing. Painkillers didn’t seem to work and nothing seemed to settle him. First thing the next morning I took him to my local GP.

My GP was concerned, David was still screeching in pain, and basically inconsolable. Yet at this stage he had no fever, no sore throat, no ear infection, no runny nose, nothing obvious to explain his pain. We spent an hour at the surgery for observation, then were advised to take him to hospital for further investigation.

My mum came with me to the emergency department, where David screamed and thrashed. He was assessed by doctor after doctor. Through tears I watched as my little boy was wrapped in a sheet and pinned down by three nurses, while a consultant unsuccessfully attempted to administer a line and take bloods. Dripping in sweat, writhing in pain, David didn’t take his eyes off me as they pricked him again and again.

The doctors were concerned he had a bowel twist and directed us to go to the city’s specialist children’s hospital to meet with the GI surgical team for a review. We were offered an ambulance transfer but I refused as I didn’t want to be without my mum. Instead we drove home, picked up my husband and went straight to the emergency department.

 At the hospital we were seen by doctor after doctor after doctor. But nobody could tell us what was going on. David was obviously in tremendous pain, but had no other symptoms. An ultrasound ruled out a bowel twist, and suddenly doctors were talking about real nasty pasties. Bone infections, meningitis, lumbar punctures. Of course we were terrified – although David was unwell we hadn’t expected anything like this. For a while, Steven and I couldn’t even say the word. ‘Meningitis’ became ‘that other thing the doctors mentioned...’ 

 Luckily for us David started to improve after taking some painkillers. Although he still had periods of intense crying, he also started having longer periods of calm. Doctors were more relaxed, telling us he had no suspicious symptoms. After a long night where David developed a hoarse voice, cough and wheeze, he was diagnosed with Croup, an ear infection and constipation.

Croup! What a relief! Somehow I couldn’t believe our luck. You see, for the entirety of our stay at the children’s hospital I had seen such dreadfully sick children. I had heard stories that made my heart break. And I had been praying that we were not about to embark on a similar journey. Taking my sad, hoarse little boy home felt like such a gift. My heart goes out to the families who have to leave their children at the hospital. The families that have to deal with heart break every day. We had a scare with a happy ending. Some other families are not so lucky.

I’m not religious but tonight I’ll thank God for my healthy child, and I’ll pray for those who need it.

It's So Much Friendlier With Two

While I was in hospital, my dearest friend Leanne was undergoing chemotherapy for Ovarian Cancer. A horrendous journey that she and her family went through, and although she has finished her chemotherapy (and is now cancer free!!) she still walks the tough road every day while she recovers physically and emotionally from the cancer.

 For the best part of three months Leanne and I were unable to see each other (the longest time we have ever been separated), and although we had conversations on the phone and by text, we weren't able to physically be there for each other. The funny thing is, our friendship and our bond has grown stronger by our experiences. As Leanne put it today “no one out there understands what it was like for us to go through hell this year”. And she’s right – they don’t.

I may not understand what it is like to go through chemotherapy, but I do understand what it is like for no one out there to understand what you are going through. She may not understand what it is like to be bipolar, but she knows how it feels to be depressed and alone. We understand each other in a way that others may not.

  And now, although the fire has been fought, there is still work to be done for both of us. This is something I think a lot of people tend to forget. Just because you have finished chemotherapy does not automatically mean you are cured. Far from it. The body needs time – a lot of time – to recover from the hell it has endured. The mind needs time to process all that it has been through. Likewise, just because you have been discharged from hospital does not mean that everything is suddenly ok. At the moment I feel I am in a constant juggling act, trying to keep on top of my emotional wellbeing.

  But despite the past year, when I get together with Leanne I laugh more than I do with anyone else out there. We have the exact same warped sense of humour that I’m fairly sure nobody out there understands. We bake and we laugh and we watch TV, and yeah we talk about the hard stuff, but we talk about the fun stuff too.

Friends are the family you choose, and I think I have chosen well. Bipolar, and many forms of mental illness, carry such a social stigma. As much as I should be honest and comfortable with what I have been through, when I am faced with someone I’m not sure I trust I find myself telling them that I suffered post natal depression, and conveniently skip over the psychotic, neurotic, manic bits. I don't want to be remembered as 'the crazy one'. But with Leanne and her family (who I trust wholeheartedly), I’m not the one who went crazy, I’m just Rachael. Just like Leanne to me is just Leanne – not the girl with Cancer.

What I am trying to say is that one thing that has helped me on this journey is my friendship with Leanne. The road is much less lonely when you have someone to laugh with, talk with and cry with. Life is so much more enjoyable when you are sent amusing texts and facebook posts (or voicemails that merely say “we’re doomed!” ;)) And as Pooh Bear once proclaimed “it’s so much more friendlier with two!”  

So thank you Leanne for everything you have done for me, and for all the ways you have helped me. I appreciate it more than I can express. Love you lots my sister from another mister :)