Today started with a migraine so I lurched down the hall for some drugs. I’m shy about pressing the “nurse” button on the bed cord. Not sure why. Anyway they furnished a Zomig and an Advil and then later on a Tramadol, so it finally left.
Busy day. I’ve been keeping busy so as to avoid the panic associated with going in tomorrow. I finished painting and decorating a little wooden box, which I am happy about because I won’t be here during that group time tomorrow.
Being here is so, so weird, where normal things seem weird and weird things seem normal. I have seen people in hospitals just walking around in their gowns and messy hair, and that seems understandable for medical floors, and for psychiatric wards too… but I wouldn’t have thought that I’d end up walking around not really giving a fuck what I looked like. I have fuzzy slippers and a baseball cap and a bunch of hoodies I wear above my saggy-ass jeans that don’t fit.
My psychiatrist came in tonight as he was out of town during the day. It was the first time he’d brought up my weight loss. “You’ve lost 6 kilos!” he exclaimed. “Well, it’s been a month,” I replied. “But that’s, like, 4 pounds a week; that’s really a lot” he said and I said “Well, I’m not hungry!” So he basically reassured me that they would be sending me to work with some Ativan and that he would see me tomorrow morning.
The recreational therapist came to talk to me as well.She explained that my brain needs an adequate amount and variety of foods to work properly, so instead of thinking of food as fuel, I could think of it as medicine. The thing is that I’m not hungry. Not. Hungry.
Since the dietitian came to see me they’ve sent just fruit (mandarin orange segments) and milk for breakfast, and cheese and crackers (as in one stick of cheese and two saltines) with fruit and milk again for lunch and supper. And I can manage that, but I also feel like I could manage with just the milk.
Anyway, I went down to the main floor where the Internet is and ordered a 5-pound tub of my favourite protein powder in Cookies and Cream flavour. And some Batiste dry shampoo. I know it would be better to Eat Full Meals and Shower Every Day but realistically I have to plan as if I won’t have the energy to do those things, and then at least I’ll have something at home. I mean, if this lasts for a couple more months, well and good; I can drop a size or two. I’m certainly not going to stretch my stomach by forcing food down it.
My morning nurse (you get a nurse assigned to each 4-5 patients on the morning and evening shifts) talked about how she saw such potential in me, and how she really thinks I need a counsellor one-to-one to sort out why my life hasn’t been awesome and how to make it awesome in the future. I bristle at that because it implies that I just haven’t tried hard enough, or long enough, or with the right people, or whatever whatever. And I have a pretty good feeling of peace that I have done my best, thank you very much.
The staff love to respond to statements like that by saying that there must be a little something inside me that’s “still fighting”, that I have proven I want to live by talking to them or whatever. The only problem is that you can’t say here’s a tiny thing, so that’s your complete destiny.
I had a shower and shaved my legs, which was exhausting, and then have been colouring on and off all night. Trying to stay busy. I know the ability to cry is just beneath the surface and I’m worried it will appear tomorrow. The recreational therapist said “the Miracle-Gro of the brain is three things, one of which is exercise” and I got all teary about how I would get upset if I tried to exercise because I know full well I’ll crap out at 5 minutes when I used to be able to do 70. And I know logically that I won’t get more fit if I just give up and cry, but that doesn’t stop me from crying. And getting all teary-eyed because a rec therapist mentioned exercise doesn’t give me great confidence in my “maintain a mask of equanimity” abilities.
I don’t know. My plan is to head to work after the morning’s groups so maybe I’ll be able to get some emotional release before I go. I feel a bit all over the place, like I need to plan a bunch of stuff for when I return to “real life” but there’s too much and it’s overwhelming, and above all I’m worried to see my house on my weekend pass; like it will be “Oh yes! Here it is! The life I still don’t want to live, right where I left it!”
I have decided to try my best to stay alive until St. Patrick’s Day, when Depeche Mode’s new album is released. It’s only 35 days away but I have been in the hospital 30 days and it feels like forever.