Friday, 5 September 2014

Lorazepam... And Recovery?

I was having a really good day today. I went to group this morning and then I made the most of being informal by popping into the local city centre. I wanted to get a new outfit for visiting Chelsea on Sunday and it was nice because I didn't have to watch the time; I could take as long as I wanted.
When I got back, I had a 1:1 with the Doctor. Now, I'm sure I'll have talked about this Doctor before... She's very special. Since I began to progress through recovery though, my time with her as made me question a few things. I would often find myself feeling absolutely fine for weeks, then I'd go into a 1:1 with this Doctor and find myself talking as though I was the me of a few years ago. At first, I believed that it was because I could be myself with this Doctor; I could say what I liked to her because I knew she wouldn't judge me. And perhaps, for a while, this was the case.
This Doctor has now been off for the past three weeks and I was glad because it gave me the chance to see what it will be like when I move to my bungalow and she isn't there. I mean, for two years, we've literally had one hour chats every week! And while she was on holiday there was the odd time when I wished she was in to speak to but ultimately, it all went fine.
So when we sat down together today, I never imagined I would end up saying the things I did. I told her how I didn't want to kill myself but that it was strange to not overdose.

Now, I know this will sound incredibly weird but a large part of my overdosing became about a routine and a habit. It was the first thing I did at the slightest hint of tears. But it was also something that I felt compelled to do. Not just as a result of auditory hallucinations; I guess it became a sort of hobby. I enjoyed planning them and I enjoyed the buzz of managing to do it... The consequences were never my aim. Every single time I forgot how bad it got, I forgot how sick the anti-dote made me, I forgot about the lack of sleep from being in a busy ward, the judgment of Doctors and the uncaring nurses...
So, I told the Doctor today that I'm not suicidal. It scares me though... If I just took a few steps onto a different bus while I was out alone then everything would go to shit. And that terrifies me. How quickly, and how easily my world could just fall down around me. And I've seen a lady recover and be discharged and within the month she was back in hospital and I couldn't help asking "is that going to happen to me?" But I don't want it to. I don't want the voices to yell again. I don't want to watch rabbits that no one else can see. I don't want to cut myself because it's my heart that is hurting. And I don't want to ever, again pick death over life. And I guess this is the crux of it all. This is what has changed.
After the chat with the Doctor, I was tired and then I was suddenly hyper and had the giggles... Oh the beauty of BPD!
And then I asked if I was allowed to go for a walk at 6pm. I felt all impulsive and in the past I would just leave the house no matter what the time and wander around. And I recognised that this had the potential to become that so rather than needing Lorazepam to stop me from trying to leave the hospital, I took the sedative to help me continue to recover. I took the sedative to calm my anxiety. To calm my worries. To reassure me that I still have this shit handled!