Locked up
The other night, I was locked up in the Police holding cells. I wasn’t under arrest… I was being assessed under the Mental Health Act. I’m still struggling to see how this is an appropriate way to respond to someone with mental health issues.
The events leading up to my detainment are fairly complex, but the event which triggered the Police involvement was when I abruptly ended a call to the crisis team. I know that wasn’t the wisest thing to do, and even though I said “goodbye”, the end of the call was abrupt. This hasn’t been an issue in the past, but for some reason, this time they contacted the Police.
A unit was sent to my house to “assess me”. As I had stamped everything back down after talking to the crisis team, I felt sure that this would be nothing more than a formality… I was wrong. The two Police who turned up, said that I didn’t appear happy; so they suggested that they take me back to the station for an assessment by one of the local crisis team. As I knew that this “suggestion” was not really a suggestion, I went along with them.
This is when things started to get really weird… I was sitting in the back of the police car with the female officer, and she read me my rights – my criminal rights… you know those ones they recite to people in handcuffs in television programs… the ones where I have the right to remain silent, and everything that you say or do can, and will, be taken down and used in a court of law… those rights.
I sat there rather stunned, but agreed that I understood my rights. She assured me that I wasn’t under arrest, but that assurance came too late… my mind raced to when my father used to take me to the police station with him for the raffle draws, and specifically the time when the policeman put me in the cells to show me what happened to “bad girls”.
When we got to the Police station, things became surreal… I was processed – my property inventoried; my jacket taken (because it had ties); my shoes and earrings removed. I asked to keep my phone because of my anxieties, but that request was denied.
I was then taken from the intake area to the desk, where I stood within the red square on the floor, and was questioned about my criminal past (or lack thereof). Thankfully I was wearing jeans which are about two sizes too big, so I could drag the excess material down and stand on that, rather than the cold concrete floor.
Then one of the worst things I have ever experienced… I was taken to a holding cell. The sound that the door made as they locked me in was incredible.
I sat on the stainless steel bench, shivering uncontrollably, trying to keep it together. I tried to focus on a spot on the floor of the cell and stay present. The internal noise was incredible… screaming… yelling that this is what you get for telling the secrets… voices saying to shut up… urges to self-injure… everything came in a rush.
When the crisis team came to assess me, he joined me in the cell. A man I didn’t know sitting between me and the door, in a small, locked cell.
He asked all of the usual questions, and I reassured him in all the usual ways. All I wanted to do was go home… that became my goal. Anything to leave that cell.
He agreed that I could go home.
I know that the crisis team, and the police need to be aware of the safety of their staff… but how is this an appropriate way to handle someone with mental health issues? At no point was I violent. I never raised my voice. I never even looked any of them in they eye. I was compliant and answered all of their questions. So why was I put in a locked cell which is usually used for criminal suspects? I don’t understand.
I remember asking if I was under arrest when they were processing my property. The policewoman said that I wasn’t… but yet, I was being treated like a criminal.
All I did wrong, was ask for help. Don’t worry, I won’t be doing that again.
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Now playing: Audioslave – Doesn’t Remind Me
via FoxyTunes
PDF Amazing Grace
It’s considered to be one of the most recognisable songs in the English-speaking world. It’s also the only song that is almost guaranteed to make me cry.
If you’re not familiar with the origins of Amazing Grace, it was written by John Newton, an English poet and clergyman, and is a song of forgiveness and redemption. It is considered to be a Christian hymn, and is sometimes played at funerals, often by a solo bagpiper. John Newton was involved in the slave trade; but on a particularly rough voyage, he began his spiritual journey. Amazing Grace was written for a New Years Day service in 1773; and has been known to be sung to over 20 different melodies, as it is unknown if the there was any music to accompany it on début. It’s now most closely associated with the tune “New Britain”, and can be sung acapella, with music, or as an instrumental.
What I find interesting about this song, is that despite it’s Christian overtones, I still strongly identify with it. I don’t believe that I will ever be forgiven for what I have done, or that I will ever be redeemed; instead, for me, the song is about grief. It’s about pain and releasing that pain. It’s about death.
There are many versions of the song available… some of the more popular ones on YouTube are by the Celtic Women, Elvis Presley, British Airways Pipe Band and Hayley Westernra (a fellow kiwi). One of my favourite vocal versions is by LeAnn Rimes…
I’m unsure about the reasons why I am seeking this song out at the moment. I’m still in a very bad place, and this is one of the songs that I want played at my funeral – another is by ABBA, just to make people laugh. So am I adding to the pit that I am in by listening to this, or am I releasing the grief and pain that I feel? I’m not really sure.
There are so many thoughts floating through my head, that it’s difficult to make sense of them. I know that I’m sucked dry. I’ve been running on empty for about four months now, and it doesn’t look as if it’s going to improve any time soon. I know my safety is a huge issue, and I was expecting Allison to send me to hospital last week… instead there was a misunderstanding, and I shut down. Any glimmers of trust that were starting to be built, have gone.
I’m trying not to be reactionary, but it’s difficult. After the session on Friday, I created this Polyvore set…
What’s interesting, is that the rabbit is looking in a mirror… is the set saying that Allison was at fault, I was, or we both were? Is this about me seeing the reflection of my dysfunctional behaviour, and not liking it? Or is it a cute graphic about no one being perfect, no matter how hard we try? I wish I knew…
One year on…
It’s been one year since my last serious suicide attempt…
Having read others “one year on” posts, they’re often filled with hope and optimism, almost as if the attempt was the turning point in their lives. I’ve heard of some who found that it helped them realise the seriousness of suicide, and how final it is.
There is sometimes talk of babies that have been born, good times with friends, holidays had, and all of the good things that they would have missed out on.
All I feel is a sense of failure. There has been nothing in the last year that I would have missed had I not been here. I don’t see that changing.
Is admitting that letting the side down?
Note: Comments are off.
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Now playing: Sarah McLachlan – I Will Remember You [Live]
via FoxyTunes
Don’t look down
Don’t look down, just keep on walking the tightrope…
People want to cut the rope, and knock you off balance by throwing more things at you to juggle. At the moment I don’t seem t have any option, other than to keep taking them on board, and adding them to my act. Because it is all just an act. If the rope gets cut, then so be it. No great loss.
Reminds me of a PostSecret I came across recently -
I only know how to be a supporting character… helping them solve their problems, while giving nothing away of my own struggles.
One day I might be strong enough to send in my own secret; until then, I’ll keep on identify with others.
Edit: Please note that this is about a situation at work. I’ve become a dumping ground for the different factions at work who can’t play nicely with each other in the sand pit. It’s doing my head in.
Shame and disgust
I hold the shame and disgust, because there’s no where else to put it.
If I don’t hold it, where would it go?
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Now playing: The Beatles – Blackbird
via FoxyTunes
Dreams of betrayal
I rarely remember my dreams, but there is one that I had approximately five years ago which I’ll always remember…
There are a group of young girls, dressed in white, escorted to a room by their mothers. One of the mothers is new to the ceremony, and is showing signs of nervousness.
Then the businessmen come in.
The girls are paraded in a circle in front of the men, while the mothers stand to the side, smiling encouragement to their daughters. The businessmen take their pick of the girls… one of them being the new girl. The businessmen and their chosen girls go to a hotel, where they are abused.
The mothers whose daughters were chosen, are smiling and congratulating each other… their daughters were good enough to be chosen. But the new mother is having second thoughts… she wants to go up and rescue her daughter, but the other mothers hold her back. Telling her of the honour and privilege it was for her daughter to be picked.
I don’t pretend to understand how to interpret dreams, but what I find interesting about this dream that it is focused on the mothers. In particular, the betrayal of mothers towards their daughters. They didn’t protect them, instead they actively facilitated their daughters abuse.
This is very much how parts of me feel towards my mother. This sense of betrayal is the reason why I had so much trouble going to Wellington. It’s not the city (I used to live here), but it’s the feelings induced by both of my parents being in the same city. In particular, a fear that the mother will offer us up for abuse.
My rational mind knows that this will not happen, but these fears are old fears. They’re not based on present day logic, but instead on the perceptions that I formed as a child. Perceptions based on what I wanted a mother to be, and do… one who protected and nourished. But in reality, she was so consumed with keeping on top of all of the obvious issues, that the ones which were even superficially hidden, were over-looked.
If I look at this knowledge within the context of the dream, she is the new mother to the group who wasn’t fully involved in the process of abuse. She tried to stop it, but was distracted by the screen of those around her. The imagery of both my mother, and the one in the dream, is that of weakness. Neither were observant, neither were thinking beyond the present moment, and they therefore found themselves in situations for which they were not capable of handling.
My mother never knowingly facilitated the abuse, but instead didn’t pick up on the signs. At one time my mother said that she suspected that something was going on with one of my sister’s boyfriends. But today, when I asked her, she said she had no idea about any of it. Instead, anything that might have been considered a sign, was explained away as being “who you were”.
There’s an emptiness in hearing this. It makes sense, in that I was trying my very best to be “perfect”. But it also hurts, in that I was not noticed in any real way… my cover story was all that people saw – or maybe all they wanted to see.
I drove for over six hours to reach Wellington. That was a long time to think about what was going to happen. There were thoughts of suicide, rather than facing the certainty of abuse that parts thought they were going to be exposed to… thoughts of being able to do this visit, just like all of the visits from the mother… thoughts of what has happened in the past, and how out of control the present has become.
At one point of the drive the messages about the mother not being able to protect me were being repeated over and over… I countered this with the thought that I am capable of protecting myself now. This was met with a sense of disbelief. It’s always comforting to know that I have such little faith in my own abilities… But realistically, I am capable of keeping myself safe from self injury. I’ve done so before, and I can do it again.
I’m told that healing is all about looking at the present feelings, understanding their origins, accepting them as valid, and using various coping mechanisms to help them be tolerated. Sounds easy, huh? So far, this weekend has proven it to be anything but easy.
One moment at a time…
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Now playing: Adele – Rolling In The Deep
via FoxyTunes
What’s real?
I’m not sure what’s real anymore. There’s been a tipping point reached internally, and derealisation has sunk in.
It’s an odd feeling, the derealisation. I was just walking down the steps at work, and had no idea of whether my foot would ever touch the next step. Part of my brain was wondering what would happen if more and more of my foot wasn’t fully on the step. Another part was wondering why the colours of the plants beside the steps seemed to vividly green, they didn’t look that way last week.
When I’m derealised, I usually have little idea of consequences. I’m not really living in the moment, let alone understanding any long term consequences of my actions. Thing is, to everyone else I still appear ok. I don’t look any different, I don’t talk all that differently (maybe a little stilted or with more pauses)… but nothing screams out to anyone “this person is disconnected”. I self-injured while at work yesterday; but that was another sign of the disconnect, not the cause. I’m having to work through some issues which I probably need to grieve for what was, and what will never be; but I don’t think that’s what’s causing this. I’m heading into another round of teaching commitments; but again, I don’t think that’s what causing the derealisation. My trust in people was shaken greatly last week; I’m not sure if that contributed or not. Shame has risen to new levels internally; but is that enough to cause this? Possibly it’s all of these factors combining to give the system a feeling of being overloaded. But I don’t feel the overload, I don’t really feel anything…
This was one of the first sets I did on Ployvore last night, and probably shows how I’m feeling the most accurately. I’m here, but not really. I’m scattered, but appearing to function. It’s an odd feeling.
My life, seems pointless. But yet there is no desire, that I’m aware of, to do anything self-destructive. Maybe that is the point of this feeling? I don’t know. I do know that I can’t keep on like this, my inability to understand consequences could lead to more self injury, and I don’t have the internal filters to be able to stop it happening. This in turn will lead to a vicious cycle of more derealisation, more self injury…
It’s an odd feeling, looking through your eyes and seeing the world as an odd caricature of itself.
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Now playing: Falling Slowly – Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova (Once)
via FoxyTunes
Where stress and memories collide…
I’m struggling.
I honestly don’t know what else to say, besides those two words. I could try to tell you the reasons, but they are just a jumble in my head. I try to make sense of the jumble, but all I get are disjointed Polyvore sets…
First this…
Then, within an hour, this…
The text in the second set is from the poem Evening song of the Thoughtful Child by Katherine Mansfield.
So yes, I’m struggling.
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Now playing: Green Day – Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)
via FoxyTunes
