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Readmission.

“I Am The Damned

I Am The Dead

I Am The Agony Inside

The Dying Head

This Is Injustice

Woe Unto Thee

I Pray This Punishment

Would Have Mercy On Me”

                                     “Who is it” – Michael Jackson 

                                  ——-

It was too good to be true. It didn’t last. The burst of energy I experienced a few weeks ago is gone. Certainly, I felt better for a while but not for long. The fog drifted down over my eyes again, the lethargy reappeared and the black ball is stirring within. 

When I left hospital I was full of enthusiasm. I got back to work (which took a significant effort to begin with), I was doing all the right things: taking medication, getting exercise, watching my sleep and spending time with my wife and family. We had some lovely days out together and all was good. I even signed up for guitar lessons. 

But over a period of weeks, everything began to slow down. Work became a drag, exercise reduced to nothing and the guitar lessons died a death. Conversation became laboured and I started to isolate more and more. I would spend long hours in bed on my days off work and entire afternoons lying on the couch listening to sombre music. Even the simplist of tasks became troublesome chores. 

More recently, my wife, obviously aware of the deterioration, encouraged me to contact my psychiatrist. But I refused. I didn’t want to admit defeat. I was foolish. Instead I languished until my mind finally turned to thoughts of ending the pain. That was the final straw. 

So now I’m back in hospital again. It’s only been a few months since my last visit and I feel like I’ve failed. But that idea will pass and slowly my reserves will be replenished and, with the right help, I will recharge body and soul. 

I am surrounded by people who are dealing with their own personal torment. Men and women from all walks of life trying to get better. Guidance, medication and the passage of time can allow them all to improve and live fulfilling lives. And so can I. 

It seems this bout of depression isn’t finished with me yet but I’m not finished either. 

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Day 4.

“Turn, turn away

From the sound of your own voice,

Calling no one, just a silence”

“Turn Away” –  Beck, Morning Phase.

—–

Life is getting easier. I don’t feel so miserable this morning. I’m up since 5.00 and there have been no tears so far. It’s an improvement. That’s not to say I can get complacent. I might feel good today and wake feeling shite tomorrow. It’s early days.

Hospital is like a cocoon. They build a scaffolding around you to support and protect you, they erect a force field. There is nothing to be worried about except your recovery. Everything else is taken care of for you.

But they do treat you like a baby. Over the sink in my room is a little sticker on the left reading “Caution – Hot Water”. That drives me mad. But then I remember that the poor bastard next door might not be able to remember which is the hot tap. It’s sobering but I know I’ve scalded myself on previous admissions.

You need a sense of humour to survive this place, a twisted black sense of fun. The other day, one young man was complaining that there wasn’t enough activity for men in the hospital. He asked another patient’s opinion. He answered that he would like to do woodwork. I thought that seemed sensible. He asked me what I’d like. Is said lap-dancing. I’m still smiling. I’m thinking of starting a petition 🙂

Routine is mandatory. I wake, eat, take medication and sleep according to predictable timetables. It’s easy to become institutionalised. But routine is important. It reduces anxiety. I wake early these days and try to establish my own patterns. Shaving is important – quintessentially masculine. Washing, brushing your teeth, just remembering to use aftershave. All these little actions, little victories, serve to make me feel more human. They help me face the day.

But I also need to maintain an element of control. I skip a meal every now and then or turn up late for my medication. I like to mess around a bit, fuck with their heads. I’m depressed, no one said I was dead.

I’m lucky. There are plenty here in worse condition than mine. But, I have to accept that I need to be here too. No one sends you in here for a holiday (it would need a pretty awful travel agent). You have to earn it. I think we all fight our demons differently in here but the suffering is just the same.

The ward is quiet. Many of the patients are on weekend leave. But I don’t mind. I have my music and enough sparkling water to supply the ward. My eldest son is coming to visit soon. I want to be in good form for his arrival. I want him to know I’ll be okay.

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Hospital.

“Let me go,

I don’t wanna be your hero,

I don’t wanna be a big man,

Just wanna fight like everyone else.”

“Hero” – Family of the Year.

—

I’m back in hospital. Incarcerated. Again.

It’s about three years since I was here last. Things haven’t changed much. The ward is the same, the nurses are the same, unfortunately, some of the patients are the same. It’s a grim reminder that the entrance has a revolving door. I never escape for too long before I return. I invariably violate my parole.

It’s hard to accept these new conditions. The lack of freedom, the admission of defeat, the sense of failure. I have been fighting a long time now and I am out of energy. I’m scheduled for a twelve round fight and it’s only the top of the tenth. My legs are like jelly and my vision is blurred. I can’t wait for the sound of the bell.

Acceptance is the key. I haven’t reached it yet, but it life is much easier once you grasp it. I know this from previous admissions. Coming to hospital is a necessary evil. It’s recognition that I am in trouble, that the fight is going on too long, that energy is low. It is submission but not surrender. It’s giving permission to allow support and help to come from the corner. It’s giving your body, mind and soul a break.

Recharging the soul takes time. It isn’t easy. There needs be tears and pain along the way. But it’s worthwhile. To finish the last two rounds might require a steroid injection but you get the chance to win the fight. There will always be another one, there are plenty of powerful contenders for the title. But, if you fight clever, dodge the blows and defend when needed, you just might keep the belt.

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Ballyheigue.

I envy people that say they had a happy childhood. I don’t mean to say that my childhood was particularly bad. It wasn’t. It’s just that I have to concentrate to remember the happy bits. I’ll try to share one happy memory now.

Every summer, when I was young, the family would pack the car to vital capacity and head for a little village in County Kerry. It was a ritual complete with necessary ceremony. The car was so full that it was impossible to see out the rear windscreen, multiple bags squashed our feet and the pillows, we would sleep on all summer, were under us.

We would take the coast road, eschewing the more direct route through Tralee, via Glin and Tarbert and on to Lisselton. Nothing much happened in Lisselton but there was a shop. Fondly known as the “Stop Shop” due to the necessity to halt and get ice cream. There was the mandatory warning not to spill any in the car but we cared less, repeat offenders. And on to Ballyheigue.

Every summer we spent two to three months in Kerry. We had a mobile home caravan that provided ample space and we entertained ourselves. What I remember most is the absolute freedom. Days spent wandering the sand dunes with friends, playing games and causing mischief. We knew the dunes intimately and never got lost. We were the masters of our own destiny.

In the evening, the imagination once more was lit. Card games and charades, story-telling and jokes and frequently, hours sunk in books. Each week my mother would do the groceries in Tralee. It was a family outing. And, an allowance was provided to buy books in the second hand store. Every week a new book, every week a new adventure. “The Three Musketeers”, “Robinson Crusoe” and many more including the jewel of discoveries, “The Lord of the Rings”.

We read because we didn’t have a television and we were better off. Eventually we got one but the reception was rubbish and we gave it little attention save my mother’s obsession with “Coronation Street”. Otherwise, it lay dormant.

My father stayed at home and worked the week so that we could afford our holiday. He came at weekends and once a summer for a fortnight for his annual leave. My Dad would play games on the beach with me and take me fishing. Prior to chasing fish, we would have to dig for bait. My Dad would dig lugworm on the beach with such strength and vigour that he could bend the spade he used. He simply reinforced the blade with metal bars and continued to catch the worms with skill and power. He was immensely strong.

Our holiday was simple but it lasted the entire duration of the school year, every year until I was in my mid-teens. It was a privilege but it came at a cost. My father spent the summer alone toiling to allow us afford our break and likewise my mother was mostly alone in Kerry. I shudder to think of that much time away from my wife. My parents sacrificed a great deal to send us to Kerry. They never holidayed abroad, never went skiing and were generally very frugal.

I’ve read that to be truly grateful is to encourage recovery. I hope it’s true. I am grateful for many things, my wife, my family and my good fortune. I have issue with many memories of my childhood but I am genuinely grateful for Ballyheigue and the part it played in shaping my life.