Posted on October 8, 2018
Day 8 – October 8 2018 – I wouldn’t bother reading this
I came back and went right to sleep after sending a long message to Jeff.
They woke me up at nearly midnight to make me take my night meds. I asked if they could just bring it to my room but I guess this isn’t a 5 star psych hospital. I slept in my day clothing. I have been wearing my Jen Cloher t-shirt every day and, last night, at night. I’m still wearing it today.
The zip zaps. Here’s a reminder.
I feel like Jeff is treating me like a baby. He’s a good carer though. He tells me to take panadol, not valium. Panadol will fix my headache but valium will fix everything.
I thought it would be a holiday here, you know. I would go away to my lovely rest home (in Werribee) and I would read and write and detox and learn to see the world in a nicer way, my marriage might even be rekindled or whatever. I would finish my novel!
I wasn’t expecting fun. I was expecting a holiday with learning. But none of this is happening. I blog. I read a few pages here and there but mostly feel guilty that I don’t read enough. I have not written a word of my novel.
I hate taking the seroquel because it makes me take forever to way up. I feel like shit in the morning. Hazy, unable to think.
They’re talking to one another – Jeff and the doctors. They talk about the plan for me, but they’re not telling me much.
I zip zap in the meantime.
They tell me I might be here another 3 weeks. That’s 4 weeks in total.
I reckon it’s genetic. Look at my parents. Sadness, anger, aggression, drinking, anxiety, paranoia.
The shrink comes in while I’m still in bed, wondering if I’ll get out or not (I wonder this, not her). She tells me I’ll be on a new anti-depressant – Cymbalta. I have to watch for some side-effects in the first week – fever, excessive sweating, confusion, excessive nausea. Fun times to be had.
These are all things she tells me, like I’ve never heard them before. I write them into my book, and I wonder if it’s to remember them, or to show her that I’m *starting somewhere*. Remember what my blog tagline says: Liar.
I have learned argumentative behaviours from my parents, apparently, over the past 49 years. I need to stop feeding the anger, apparently. Also, this is what anger looks like:
You start and build. If I stop building and reacting, the more I do it, the easier it will get. In my mind, I feel I’m losing control if I don’t react. Over time, I will handle it and won’t want to control things.
Physically step back in that moment.
If the Sad Bastards are overwhelming, I can walk away.
Listen. Don’t connect. Let go. Like a leaf flowing on water; let it pass.
Think happy thoughts
Don’t worry about it
She’ll be right
You just take things too seriously
She didn’t say this but that’s how her words sound to me.
Zip Zip Zap
Just took my new cure.
30mg of Cymbalta.
Told one of the inmates about my new cure and she had this look so I asked her what her look was about and she said it was Cymbalta that sent her off the rails.
So there we are.
Three things I would like to say:
1. I like to write all of this then type it into wordpress – helps me remember. Helps me write better, I think.
2. We can order Uber Eats to here (go ahead, judge)
3. Why do I continue to put on make up every day? I like to hide my outsides, but I’m ever so open about my insides.
4. I stepped on my headphones last night while out of it. They work but are broken, so I ordered some new ones from Big W. The same but in pink, to arrive here, at the mental hospital. Just like Uber Eats!
Chrissie Amphlette was 53 when she died, not quite her 2nd Saturn return but it did get me thinking about how we forget about the 56-club and focus only on the 27 club. I dunno, I guess 56 isn’t interesting enough. Not like 27. But watch out for the 2nd Saturn Return. That shit’s for real.
It occurred to me this morning – and this is super big for me – that artists (musos, writers etc) don’t become boring as they age. It’s not that *they’ve* changed. We have changed. Their audiences. It’s not that their art isn’t as interesting. We do. OUr expectations do.
It’s amazing some of the words that get thrown around here like: ECT, TMS – as though someone’s saying “you want a coffee?”
I should leave my room.
It’s 3:49pm and I have left my room three times, I think:
1.To get my morning meds at the meds window
2. To ask for valium
3. To see what was on the lunch menu.
I pass the Sad Bastards table and the Maco waves me over and says he’s happy to see me. He sleeps all day until they tell him to get up. Then he has anxiety and a panic attack and sadness and goes tot the common room looking for people. But I tell him I can’t stay. I can’t help him now. Maybe later. I don’t have anything now. Just the Zip Zip Zaps.
I feel terrible. He’s reached out for help and I have nothing to give. No empathy.
See, #1 sign of being a psychopath.
I’m leaving the room to get my delivery. Whatever.
I don’t think I could do what Jeff is doing. He gets me stuff. He visits. He sees my parents. He buys me a little ruler so I can measure things. I couldn’t do it. See, also, #1 sign of being a psychopath.