Endings/beginnings

Today marks – I hope – the end of the worst month of my life so far.

This morning I was discharged from the psychiatric hospital where I’ve spent the past 10 days.

It still feels slightly surreal.

I can tell myself that I was the sanest patient in there, that it was all a terrible mistake, but nothing can take away the fact that I’ve been a psychiatric in-patient.

Never, ever did I imagine myself in that situation.

For the past 10 days I’ve inhabited a world of mesh-covered windows, unbreakable mirrors and unlockable bathroom doors.

A place where tea and coffee is decaffeinated and served in styrofoam, and no one possesses a dressing gown belt.

A place where my phone charger and tweezers were confiscated as potentially dangerous weapons.

A place where it had started to feel normal to see people kicking walls.

And now I’m home.

This also feels surreal.

After 10 days where I’ve done essentially nothing but lie on my bed in my safety-proofed room and been given meds at regular intervals, some days not even coming out to eat, the freedom is difficult to get used to.

I don’t know what to do with myself.

I feel a bit like I’m at a crossroads now, cliched though that may sound.

Coming out of hospital marks the end of a period in which I attempted suicide, was bluelighted to A&E, spent four days on a drip, came home, tried to get on with life again, failed, decided to jump off the motorway bridge, was intercepted and got admitted to hospital as an informal patient but only because I was told that if I didn’t go voluntarily, I’d be sectioned.

I don’t EVER want to live through an experience like that again.

So it’s an ending – but also a beginning.

Today I have to commit to beginning the process of getting better.

It’s going to involve meds, therapy and time, and it’s not going to be easy.

The meds are meant to keep me on an even enough keel to engage with psychology, which is intended to help me unpick why I have so little self-worth and change the way I feel about myself.

Can I do it? I honestly don’t know. I see so little to like about myself. I just see all the problems I cause, all the messes I make, all the things I get wrong and make difficult, all the times I let people down.

It’s very, very hard to believe that there’s someone likeable in there.

The doctor explained this morning that my period in hospital wasn’t treatment; it was a way to keep me safe while they worked out what combination of meds and therapy would be best for me.

She acknowledged that I probably don’t feel any better now than I did when I was admitted.

She said that the next couple of weeks would be a dangerous time, and that I’d need to be very careful.

I’m feeling that already.

I feel raw, vulnerable, a bit like I’ve been peeled and left exposed.

Even small, normal things like doing the school run and cooking the children’s tea feel overwhelming.

I don’t really know what to do with myself.

It’s an ending and a beginning, and it’s all too scary.