Here is something.
For the past 9 days I’ve been plagued with suicidal thoughts, followed by a plummeting mood.
Discharge is, once again, postponed. Everyone scratches their heads, wondering why my mood still hasn’t levelled out. The nurses tell me that we need to get me home, before this place starts to eat me alive, but they are “worried”, “concerned” that I cannot keep myself safe.
I hide in my bay, curtains drawn round me. Sodden tissues gathering at my feet. Day after day, nurses, the occupational therapist, the support workers, rip back the curtains and find me curled up on the bed, silent tears streaming down my face. In ward round, I have panic attack after panic attack, gulping, gasping for air, howling that I just can’t do it. The consultant announces I am not fit for home. A nurse tells me this is a “huge step back”. “Don’t say that”, I whisper. “This is the most distressed I’ve seen you in a long, long time”.
The consultant tells me an antidepressant is a “last resort”, in case it makes me high. He pulls back on the quetiapine. Changes his mind, decides he’d rather me high after all; he scribbles “Trazodone, 50mg nochte” on my kardex.
I have been swept up by a big black wave. I have been steamrolled into the ground. I am a strain, a drain, a deflated balloon. Flat as a pancake.
A manic patient hugs me, long and hard, lies down on the ground and howls, “when you are down, down, down on the ground, you can look up and see the light!” The light. Indeed. I flick through my journal; this time last year, I had written those exact same words- I can see the light. Now, today, I am drowning in darkness.
People talk, there is noise. People ask questions, I struggle to make the words come out. People laugh, I force the corners of my mouth to curl into a small smile.
I lift my pen. I blink at the empty page. I set it down.
I have nothing left to say.