The Bastard Noose: Admission

INTRO HERE

Foreword: This series is essentially a journal, written from notes and based on my perspectives at the time. In order to explain, I hope to help you understand. I do not always come across well, and I am aware of that, but it is only fair as I will be honest about those I met, too. This first part is dark, and I don't apologise for that because this was the darkest part of my life. I have to portray that fairly.

This isn't over, but I want it to be clear that I am not in this place now. I wouldn't be putting this piece out if I didn't feel strong enough to talk about it.

Part 1: Admission

When you try to kill yourself, the last thing your confidence needs is to be so fat that the noose snaps.

Smoking my fifteenth, or possibly fiftieth, cigarette of the day, I thought about just walking away. Running, if my legs would let me. The south circular, a famous river of smog which creeps through London like a diseased artery, never looked so enticing. A water slide of ash and escapism. Watching buses and cars and people and all those lovely, horrible distractions which weren't hospital; I wanted out of there at whatever cost.

So very tempting. Yet I was so very obviously stressed and unhappy that I was too embarrassed to even try. I finished the fag and went back inside. Even more ashamed of myself.

South east London. Lewisham is where I grew up, though not the hospital I was at. I was diagnosed with epilepsy at twenty. I have had MRI scans of my brain, consultations and all the other wretched, weird things they do in diagnosing that illness. Then I was diagnosed with clinical depression at twenty five.

At one point years ago those genius, bastions of science literally strapped me down. Strapped me down and flashed a strobe light in my eyes to see if I was photosensitive, something people associate with epilepsy but that only three percent or so actually have. Result? I was fine but incredibly pissed off. It is an annoying test, having a strobe light flashed in your eyes, even if you aren't photosensitive.

I did not have fond memories of those experts, I was not keen to return.

What the doctors didn't diagnose then, which in a way I now wish they had, was a deeper malaise. A grandiose word for miserable bastard. Since those Halcyon days of my late teens, mentally I've been holding it together with sellotape, luck and a little self medication. Just a smidge, a healthy amount. A healthier amount than giving up altogether. That's how I saw it, and to an extent it worked.

Admittedly I'd been riding my luck. Fifteen years after being diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy, which didn't affect me at all as far as I was concerned, I was back at hospital. Ten years after the depression ruling and a day after the recent literal crash to earth I was back. Pathetically so. 

It's what they like to call a "crisis", which I hate. Industry terms. Get used to them, and my own spins on the bureaucratic doublespeak.

Both my mood and my seizures have surged and subsidised over the years. The depression, in particular, occasionally threatening to sweep me away in its tide. Recently it very nearly, finally did. But you know that, it's why we're here.

I simply didn't want consciousness. I wasn't that unwell in my mind; or if I was, I was fine with it. Escape it. Won't be soon before long, then blissfully nothing else. Ignorance is bliss. I still struggle to not feel like that at times. 

Strongarmed into attending the doctor, I was literally bundled into a car and taken semi aware to my GP; who referred me on to hospital as urgent. I'd been made to see the GP by those who care for my longevity. Them who rescued me. That nuclear family.

Because of my urgent status I was seen quickly, and taken seriously, which did reassure me a little. But I was against staying. Desperate to leave A & E, I said all the right things. Agreed with the doctors, nodded sincerely, forced a smile. Home before dinner. Easy work I'd done a thousand times. Only it didn't work, they wanted more from me.

Not only did they decide I was mentally unwell, which was not a hard call in retrospect, but I was physically unwell as a direct result. Healthy body healthy mind.

The medical staff wanted me in longer term, under the care of the hospital and trust. I wasn't keen, angrily bludgeoning my way to the smoking area.

A doctor followed me out as I fumed, I can't remember her name and I may not be allowed to say it anyway. She was good, really good- and I now have a panoramic frame of reference. Unfortunately this doctor didn’t partake in my carcinomic pass-time, and I got the impression she was not doing something she was happy about. You and me both love. I wasn’t in the mood to be nice and acknowledge that.

It was explained to me by this doctor that an inpatient stay as a voluntary admission was best for me.

Explained and strongly recommended.

The NHS for those who don't know, has been bent over a barrel since Blair. Getting costly things given to me from them, I knew all too well, was ominous.

Despite my bitter desire not to be classed a nut nut (see intro for context), I was scared of a great many more things. I felt feeble, useless, and worst of all I no longer felt like me; I had no desire. I probably wasn't even wanking, but who remembers that. This doctor, some consultant or other, explained that hiding at a relative's house was no good for me. More importantly it was no good for the relative.

I hadn't thought about that. Worrying about finding your brother, son, whatever, dead. No fun. I was compos mentis enough to translate that intangible. Not guilt tripped so much as shown a mirror I didn't like, but had to accept. I accepted. After some despair, I agreed to inpatient treatment. Sounds easy doesn't it, but it wasn't. 

Diagnosis a decade ago was only the beginning. It had taken ten years of fractured treatment to get to to this. A therapist here, some medication there, a sprinkling of time off. All had helped to just about delay my demise. 

Despite hating how pathetic I felt, I bit down, hard on the metaphorical shopworn gumshield, hoping it would be quick. Leaving now was nothing but an admission of defeat- bottling it. It was to be more testing than I could have imagined.

A lot loomed large over me, but treatment was my decision now. 

That bastard noose.