I wrote a post with this same title over half a year ago. I had been committed against my will because I wasn’t making any sense. In one moment I was laughing at the skies outside, which I saw from the window in my therapists office, the next I was uncontrollably crying, saying random stuff about things on the walls. I was obsessively talking about how great I was feeling, how okay I was, through the tears splattering out my eyes. I’m so happy, I said. And then I crept up the walls. I didn’t exist. I don’t think I’ve ever said so many words in such a short space of time. I was just rambling along, moving from one subject to another, not censuring myself at all. I said things I didn’t mean, I said things I denied being true, I said things I didn’t realize was true. I just kept going and going and going. So they locked me up for some days. And then they let me back out. In the last post I wrote how disappointed I was in the system, and I still am disappointed about what happened those three days. Because what makes them discharge someone that few days later is so ill they have to commit them again, against their will this time also? If I could’ve stayed a bit longer that first time, maybe things hadn’t gotten so bad that it had to go half a year before I was well enough to get back out. Because my third day there I kind of wanted to stay a while, because I realized that creeping up the walls, and laughing uncontrollably for several hours straight, loosing control wasn’t healthy, wasn’t good, wasn’t anywhere near being able to take care of myself. I was ready to get help.
But three days later I was on another planet. I was never going to accept help again. I was never going to live another day. And it might sound strange that things changed so much just in the span of some days, but that’s the truth. I was really on the edge when I lost control that day in my therapists office, it all started to crumble down, I was spinning out of control. And that third day I saw that, I understood that, and I knew I needed help. I felt myself loosing the grip on the world, I was just one step away from free falling. And when they rejected me, that step was made. I had lost control, and I didn’t realize any longer that my perception of the world was me being sick, I didn’t see or understand that I needed help, I was too lost for that. All I knew was I was going to die and I thought that I was perfectly healthy in believing that.
6 weeks ago I was discharged again, for the umpteenth time. Then I had been admitted for more than 3 months consecutively, and for half a year more or less (some days discharged because they couldn’t keep my against my will any longer, few days later I got worse and they put me in again). But this time it was planned, it was a step in the right direction. The last 6 weeks I’ve been trying so hard on my own. And the moment where I need to take a trip back to hospital hasn’t come yet, and I don’t see it in the near future either. This time it really is good bye hospital, hello world. I exist in the world. And writing that is so big. It must sound stupid, but to me, that’s so big. I don’t mean that the derealization has stopped, or that I am alive existentially. What I mean is that I have thoughts about the world, I as a person has a life that is more than hospital, and more than my own mind. My life has the world in it. Gosh, I don’t think I’m making myself understood … well, at least I understand myself. Thaha!
I’m not saying that things are easy now, and I’m not saying that I’m not ill anymore, what I’m saying is that fighting with all you have, with all you are, will make a difference, it will move you from one situation to another. What I’m saying is that even if you fight for so long, and you feel as if it is all you’ve ever done, and even if you think for days and days and days on end that nothing will ever change, it will never get any better, and for so long it never does get better, it will. It does. Do I still think of dying? Yes, everyday. Several times a day. But is it all I do? No, not anymore. I’m not where I was some months ago. Not just in a physical way, but in an emotional and mental way. I’m not the zombie that didn’t see anyone else, and who didn’t know what the reflection in the mirror was. I don’t have that one track mind any more. There is room for other stuff. For some good stuff even. And no matter how much I want to give up, and no matter how often I feel like I’m fed up and has had enough of life for better or worse, I don’t want to make the mistake of not acknowledging that, that it has gotten better. No matter how much it hurts, still, no matter how hard it is to keep going, I am not going to forget that somehow it was worse than this a while back, even if that sounds impossible. It’s not good, but it is better. Even if it’s just an inkling. A drop is still a drop, even though the ocean is wide (quote by me!).