All hearts day

Is the Swedish name for Valentine's. We're celebrating pretty seriously, it's our first Valentine's. I've never really celebrated Valentine's before, not properly.

I've been preparing all week and today it culminated in a super intense full day of crafting, wrapping gifts and... well, preparing. I don't want to give anything away.

I finally got an appointment for getting my tooth taken care of. It's ages away because I need anaesthesia and the special dentist only has the anaesthetologist (?) come in every hundred years or so.

And I've seen a psychologist, and I'm seeing her again next week, and then she's going to decide what kind of treatment I'm getting and putting me on a waiting list for that specific type of treatment. It can take six months, or more. But still, a step inthe right direction.

Now I'm going to bed because like ten or eleven hours of crafting and prepping has pretty much worn me out.

My life might actually be some kind of experiment?

So my beloved readers; some depression news. I have seen a new doctor. She was quite young I think, it was hard to tell. Her face looked pretty. On her desk was a picture of her, a man and like five children. Anyway. She was, like most doctors I've met the last few years, quite rude and superior. I think it's easy to be superior when you honestly think that you are. Is that something they teach you at med school? That you are literally better than every other person in the world? Or is it just that kind of person that decides "I should be a doctor"? Or is it specific for those who work with us head cases? Most eye doctors and general physicians and people who work in the ER and stuff have seemed less inclined to treat their patients like crap.

Anyway. I told her about my sadness and frustration and feeling of meaninglessness and powerlessness. She didn't seem to like my attitude, questioning wether I actually wanted her help or not. I told her about my past and (some of) the difficult things that had happened in my childhood, youth, last few years. She asked me why I was bullied in school. She asked me why I got locked in a small room by my teacher. I felt exasperated. I told her I wanted to quit my meds. She told me she agreed and that I should switch to a different kind. The switch would make me more depressed and my suicidal impulses would be more difficult to ignore. She told me to go back to the psyche ward if I felt more suicidal. I set my suicide-o-meter to alert me if I got too suicidal. (No. No I didn't. There is no such thing. As a chronically depressed person it's difficult AS FUCK to tell when a feeling is right or wrong, true or imagined, real or just a product of the depression. Too suicidal? What?) I explained to her that I couldn't afford to commit myself again. That the last time, more than a year ago, resulted in bills I still haven't been able to pay and a "marking in the register" that means that I won't be able to rent a car or buy a house or shop on credit or get a loan or anything for several years. She said that didn't matter. I almost laughed. Almost. Death would at least solve my economical situation. 

I told her that I wanted therapy, not just new drugs all the time. "Oh, has no one explained?" She asked superiorly. "The wait for cognitive behavioral therapy is several months long." "Oh," I answered, "but I don't want cbt. I want ordinary counseling. I want to talk to someone." 

She looked at me. Arms crossed. Face empty of emotion. "No." She said. She explained that I needed cbt and new meds. Not talking. Cbt and meds. 

I told her several good reasons why I needed not cbt. I don't want it, I don't feel that behavior is the reason for my depression but the other way around and I don't think changing my behavior will effect my depression, several doctors (nice ones and superior ones) have recommended counseling and not cbt for me, et cetera. 

"No. Cbt will help. Cbt and new meds. Your depression stems from your behavior."

I felt stunned. Why force me to wait for months for a form of therapy that I don't even want? While at the same time making me more suicidal? (I kind if feel that suicidal is something that you either are or aren't. Like pregnant. Either you manage to stay alive and then you deserve applause or you don't and then you deserve sympathy.) I told her I personally would prefer counceling if that was at all possible. "I'll raise the question at the next staff meeting" she said, which I've heard so many times I know by now that it means yeah whatever kid you're not a doctor and I am. 

She gave me the number for a suicide prevention thing or whatever. I left feeling like shit. Why where you bullied? Well gee wiz missus doctor mam, I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE. I still wonder. Why do I inspire hatred in people? Why did my teacher lock me up? Why do "friends" still turn around and stab me in the back? What's wrong with me? I don't know. All my life I've been trying to conform, change, fit in, not be awkward and scared, be nice and pleasant but also cool and confident. I'm great at small talk. I think. But still people start hating me. All my life. Hate. 

So yeah doctor. Cause I suck maybe? Cause I'm just not likable? Cause I'm some kind of freak?

Today I started taking a lower dose of my meds and in two weeks I'll have quit them completely. After that I'm supposed to start taking that other kind. I don't want to. I probably won't. If she calls me before then telling me I get to go to counceling, then maybe I will. Otherwise I'll give up on a system that has abused me for three years and start trying... Homeopathy or some shit. Needles maybe? What's that called? The Chinese thing? Or maybe like telephone healing or vitamins or working out or whatever. 

Probably just painting and painting and painting. Like now. But without welfare and meds. (You can't get welfare in Sweden unless you look for work or have a doctor saying you're not fit for work, and if I don't take the drugs that will make me want to kill myself even more they'll just say that I'm not trying to get better and thus I'm obviously not depressed enough or something like that. And I won't try to find a job that I know I can't do. I can't get up in the mornings, I can't see any meaning with life or being awake or eating food or breathing so I know I won't be able to go to work without constant panic attacks. I get panic attacks from trying to go down to the shops for heavens sake. I'm pretty sure I know my depression by now. So yeah, my future holds zero income, again, and with that comes total freedom from having a place to live and I'll be homeless, again. I guess just talking to that doctor for 40 minutes made me more fucking suicidal, yay! 

Seriously. I'm in a catch 22 and I can't see how I'll survive. 

Vatten över huvudet

Jag promenerar långsamt. Mina fötter gör ont. Igår firade jag yalda, en persisk midvinterhögtid. Jag är trött. Jag vet att jag inte borde ta ut mig så fort jag börjar må lite bättre men jag gör det ändå. Varje gång, utan undantag.

Igår träffade jag en kompis, sen gick jag upp till avdelningen, sen träffade jag Irena och Michal, sen körde de mig till folkets park där jag var till midnatt och dansade tills jag var genomblöt av svett. Det var en bra dag men idag är jag känslomässigt utmattad. Imorgon blir jag utskriven. Ytterligare en stressfaktor.

Kvinnan som bjöd in mig till Yaldafirandet heter också Yalda och är helt fantastisk. Hon är kanske runt sextio och pratar knappt någon svenska och har dessutom olika långa ben vilket gör det svårt för henne att gå. Jag tror att hon har otroligt ont. Trots det är hon alltid glad och dansade nog mer än mig igår. När hon dansar syns det inte att hon är handikappad. Som om det är meningen att hon skulle dansa.

Jag lärde känna henne när jag kom in åå avdelningen, vi delade rum första veckan eller så.

Då var stämningen där alltid rolig och bra, människor i alla åldrar som mest var ledsna, inte så farligt galna. Nu är det mest äldre kvinnor som är rätt ordentligt galna. Det är lite tråkigt men jag har träffat folk där som jag hoppas på att vara vän med länge. Som Yalda, som inspirerar mig med sitt soliga humör, M som är världens yngsta femtioåring, J som är ängslig men snäll, T som nästan känns som en familjemedlem, K som är min nuvarande, jätteroliga rumskompis, J som är fantastiskt intelligent och rolig, I som är dagisfröken och nästan lika liten som barnen hon jobbar med. Många fler. Som jag verkligen tycker om, mycket.

Nu finns det en gammal kvinna som sitter och skriker "maten är lagom varm!" Eller "slutet är nära!" och en annan som tror att man pratar med henne varenda gång man pratar och en som sjunger hela tiden. "Det finns inget vackrare än sanningen, sanningen, sanningen."

Det har varit fem märkliga veckor.

In the right direction

The only way is up! I'm getting better. It feels good.

Most of the guys at the ward who I became friends with have gone back home or on to treatment facilities. And I'm going home on Monday.

I've had free permission to sleep at home and go out whenever I want but on Monday I'm going home for real.

Now I'm painting my nails and watching Disney movies and knitting Christmas presents.

Just december

Not really Christmas. I'm sitting in my bed at the ward, listening to music and crocheting. Feeling strange and empty. Lonely. But I don't want to be with anyone.

I can smell hospital food. There's minus eighty three crowns on my account. It's raining outside.

Beeep

Today they're going through all the wards and testing the alarms. For hours there's been a constant beeping. It's horrible. There's a guy here who has some trouble with his temper who almost exploded at breakfast.

I'm still tired from last night and went back to bed after breakfast and a meeting with a counselor type person. She told me about stuff that I can do and help I can get to make my life work again. Felt good. But falling asleep in the noise is not easy.

Now I should try to wake up and maybe take a quick shower and have another cup of tea before I go home and do the laundry.

Another day in paradise

So today I had a long, stressful, confusing and pretty bad day. I had a stupid and meaningless fight, I was tired, my confidence is crap (I'm in a fucking mental institution, good luck feeling on top of shit) and stuff in general is shitty.

Ended with a game of scrabble at the ward and it was fun. It feels nice hanging out with people who also feel like shit. We can laugh at it. And we do, and we laugh at the fact that we're laughing. We tell each other that our craziness is okay and laugh at it. We're all here. We all have reasons. I can forget about my life and all the crap and all the things I've done that have lead me here. I can forget about how I have failed completely. I'm normal here.

And when I'm not here that feeling lingers for a while. It follows me out into the world.

I'm getting new meds soon. And tomorrow I'm going home to do some laundry.

Hello from the ward

So I've not told very many, close friends and my parents, but I committed myself to a psyche ward. Because of the suicide thing. Or, because I wanted to do it, I had a plan. I had sleeping pills and I was gonna get some booze and a knife and get in a hot bath. Make sure it was gonna work. Make sure I was alone.

I didn't do it though. I came here and I've been here a week now.

It helps me. I feel better. I still cry and ask the nurses why it's so important that I stay alive, I've been alive for almost thirty years, can't that be enough? If I don't want to live, why do I have to? Why?

But today me and a couple of the other patients played scrabble and talked about literature and poetry and movies and cigarettes and a lot of other things and it feels good to be with people who also feel like shit. We can laugh about it.

Bloop

So today I met a ... Doctor? Nurse? Person? Anyway she started my ADHD-evaluation. A bit scary.

Ten days until I fly away. 

FUCK YOU DEPRESSION!

IMMA KICK YOUR BUTT! YEAH!

But I don't really know how yet. I called my doctor today. School is back on, easter break over. Still no cigarettes though I was close today and no coffee. I feel a little bit less sleepy today than usual.

I have been drinking at least one cup of coffee every day for years. Not sure how many, six maybe? At least six. Maybe seven. Every day. Today is maybe my tenth day without coffee. And it feels pretty good.

People ask why I stopped drinking coffee (in Sweden that's almost a faux pas) and even though there's a pretty long explanation I feel a bit perplex. Why the hell not?

Now I'm gonna go eat chinese food with the nerds.

rebirth

So to try to do something about my depression I decided to start by changing some habits. I'll tell you about them.

Today:

• No coffee, one cup of black tea
• No candy or sugar (except for small amounts of added sugar in my food since I don't want to throw out stuff I bought just a couple of days ago...)
• lots and lots of water
• workout

The plan for the close future is a cleanse, which will start in a couple of days and which will be HORRIBLE. In no way am I going to try to kid myself that it will be easy or in any way fun. It's gonna suck. It consists of mostly broth and nutritious drinks but also allows some vegetables. Gonna try to stop smoking and I think that will be fine, it's the coffee that's difficult. Coffee is the main reason why I'm not doing the cleanse thing right away. I'm gonna try to be a bit kind to my body and do stuff gradually. So a day or two of tea before caffeine is totally out. 

Now I'm gonna start by cleaning my room. A clutter-free environment might help give me a clutter-free mind.

-----edit--------

Okay, I think Emelie might have shared her cold with me after all, or it's caffeine withdrawal, but I think no workout. I feel dizzy.