When the Darkness Won

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Saturday, 22 May 2004

(The following pieces were written over a period of four months after I returned home from hospital. )

Part 1:

I felt so cold. The ambulance man gently covered me with a blanket and reassured me that we would soon be there. I listened to his cheery jokiness as I pulled the cover tight around me, knowing that the chill was inside not out. An unremembered conversation except for a moment of panic when I asked the time and remembered that my eldest daughter would have arrived hours ago expecting dinner. Panic followed by guilt that I had forgotten. Transitory emotions without energy to feed them.

The hospital was brand new, purpose built and totally unfamiliar. Even its name unheard before. A male nurse met me, sitting me in an office while he explained the 'rules' and organised a cup of tea and an unwanted sandwich. No nail scissors or sharp objects to be brought onto the ward. There was only me, no belongings except cigarettes, matches and my house keys. Questions, forms to fill in, being weighed and blood taken. A constant, gentle monologue that washed over me, only the occasional word or phrase clinging lightly to my mind.

Tomorrow, he told me, I would be introduced to my 'named nurse'. Someone I could talk to or turn to whenever needed. A signpost amongst bewildering strangeness.

My room was bright and simple. A bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, bedside table and a sink. A door that closed but of course did not lock. Tucked away next to the shower room at the end of a short corridor. Silent. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the sandwich or through the window at the vague hint of a courtyard or garden hidden in the darkness. Empty, without thoughts, neither waiting, nor anticipating nor reflecting. Responding, smiling, speaking when someone entered the room like some voice activated automaton that shuts down once alone.

I have visitors. It occurs to me that I should be anxious, fearful or nervous about their response to my actions. Pausing, I listen for a moment, but there is still only emptiness.

My ex-husband, my children, my daughters boyfriend sit in the dining room on hard plastic chairs, huddled around a table. I sit in the chair left vacant for me. A hug from each, bright, tight smiles, the sound of unvoiced questions and anger is deafening. An exchange of information, what I did, how they found out. I turn my sudden remembering of my daughter coming to dinner into a funny story and attempt to make them laugh. I don't want to talk, they don't know what to say. The boyfriend says nothing but holds my hand under the table. I flash him a look of gratitude.

I go for a cigarette in the bare, uncomfortable room designated for that purpose before returning to sit on my bed. Occasional interruptions from staff wanting information or signatures. Or to give me pieces of paper that explain policy, meal times, until finally I am told to go to the dispensary for my medication.

Which consists of a sleeping tablet and instructions to get a good nights sleep.

I take the tablet, return once again to my room. Undress, climb into bed and switch off the light. I sleep for precisely two hours before waking to watch the clock move with agonising slowness through the minutes, the hours. To smoke too many cigarettes that I don't really want. To be reprimanded for being awake by the staff member who sits in an armchair at the crossroads between corridors.

Alone in the dark, thoughts, grief, terror, pain, come surging up from their hiding place. The bare room becomes a prison cell where I am trapped with no way of escape. Curled into a tight ball beneath the covers it finds my hiding place. Mocking the tears that yet again drench my face as I bang my head against the wall in a effort to escape. Eventually, in desperation I turn on my phone, breaking all kinds of rules, to send a one line text.

'I am so alone.'

Almost instantly the reply comes back.

'You are not alone, I am with you as always.'

I leave the message there, where I can see it and hug the mobile to me like a child holds a teddy bear, until morning comes and a nurse knocks on the door to tell me to go to breakfast.

Part 2

I didn't sleep the night before. Thoughts bombarded my mind like rocks being hurled in a constant barrage leaving me curled up, clutching my head in an effort to prevent the agony. The house was empty except for the cats who watched from under the sofa, puzzled and wary. The urge to cut. To see the sharp shining edge of a razor blade make red, bubbling tracks on my arm. Relief so close yet unobtainable because of a brick wall promise made.

There was no one to turn to. No place to find comfort. Immediate reasons for distress had no relevancy. This was the bottom of a valley, buried under a landslide of many months of depression and struggle.

Morning came. Cold light seen through the gap between drawn curtains. Sitting at the computer, watching friends log on or off as if strangers too far away to speak to.

Plans made months ago came to mind, clear and crisp. Letters written and put - I had no idea where - but someone would find them. Eventually. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except to escape the pain. People would be angry, hurt. For awhile. Maybe. They would soon forget. Their lives running more smoothly without me.

The tablets were in my handbag. Waiting.

I filled a glass with whisky. Right to the top so that it spilled over onto the keyboard as I took the first mouthful. Cheap, harsh tasting without a mixer to smooth it; drank some more, then began to take the diazapan from their blister pack and place them, tablet by tablet on the desk.

So small and white and harmless they looked. Tiny stepping stones to peace. Easy to swallow them with the whisky whose taste had grown less offensive. Sipping more slowly now, afraid that I might be sick and have to begin all over again with something else. What was there? Pain killers somewhere in the house. That struck me as funny. 'Pain killers'.

Thoughts slowed and calmness settled over me like a warm blanket. I rested my head on the desk, wondering why I was crying. Was I crying? There was no sound, only the wetness on my face. What about... two friends, no letters for them, they might wonder. Try to focus, leave them each a message without saying anything to alarm them.

How sad to die alone. I had been alone forever and now, even now...sudden fear clearing my mind. I wanted to die, I did not want to die alone! But who? The number for the Samaritans was marked, I had phoned them before. Several times. This would be the last.

Who answered the phone? A man? A woman? I can't remember. Nor can I remember what they said. Only asking whoever it was to talk to me because I did not want to be alone. My mobile rang. A friend. Shouting at me, asking what I had done. The voice on the other phone, shouting, telling me to hang up the mobile. I put the phones next to each other and let them shout. No more shouting.

Not now.

I closed my eyes.

The Samaritan phoned for an ambulance.

Someone must have given them my address.

Someone must have unlocked the door to let them in when they arrived.

Someone?

It could only have been me. I have no recollection. No memory of leaving my house or arriving at the hospital. There is only hours of nothingness, then waking propped up in a bed, a bed in a cubicle with the curtains drawn close around. A woman standing next to me asking questions. I can still see her face, but there is nothing of the words she spoke. She did not smile. Looked as though she rarely did. Distant and unapproachable.

"I wanted it to stop." and the tears were running down my face. Again? Still?

Disappointment was a knife cutting me to pieces. I had failed. The silence, the peace was sliding out of reach. Soon the pain would begin again.

Again. Again. Again.

She said I would have to stay.

I wanted a cigarette. And my phone. No one knew where I was. Who would feed the cats?

A porter came, helping me into a wheelchair, then pushing me to a phone. No answer from anyone. Cheerful and kind, he took me outside into the cold night air to smoke.

Night?

Night. It was dark The day had passed away instead of me.

Automatically, without effort, the mask slipped back into place. Casual, light conversation. About the weather, the perils of smoking, how long I would have to wait before being transferred.

Behind the smiles, behind the words, numbness.

I had failed.

Part 3

The days that followed blend into one memory of vague impressions high lighted by the occasional incident. I am not sure how long I stayed in the hospital, three days I think. Not long. Queuing for sleeping tablets and antidepressants. Sitting in the dining room unable to eat the food on my plate. The smoking room, thick with people and smoke during the day, silent and cold in the early hours of the morning. Shivering on a bench in the garden, never for long enough. A few minutes and a nurse would tell me to come inside.

Family visits, stiff and formal.

A friend, who said little but held me in his arms while I cried.

My sister on the phone, twice. Angry, hurt and bewildered. Shouting. Bringing up subjects I did not want to discuss, could not discuss. Returning angry words for angry words until finally I slammed the phone down and fled to my room. To cry.

No one to talk to. Anonymous staff too busy to listen or comfort. Should I search amongst the name tags for 'my' 'named nurse'? Never met, never seen. Never spoken to.

A doctor with brief questions. How did I feel? Fine. Great.

I did not shower or wash or change my clothes until the last day.

Finally, "The consultant wants to see you."

Now would be my chance. Someone to listen, to understand. Someone who would know what to do.

I went into the room, one glance and I began to shake. My throat closed, choking words. A consultant, his houseman, a student, another doctor, a nurse, an occupational therapist, a social worker.

I joined the circle, a specimen, observed and noted. Introductions, unheard names.

Open the door! Let me out! Silent. Say nothing, be good.

"What do you want us to do that would help you?"

I stare at my hands, twisting, squeezing, pinching. How to answer? If I knew what to do I would not be here.

"I'm fine. I feel fine."

What else is there to say?

Routine smiles, notes made. An appointment for the clinic in two weeks time. A phone number for a self help group in the next town.

I can go home now.

Collect my house keys from the office and go home.

Was I ever here?

Part 4

Sitting in the car with my ex husband, a carrier bag filled with my belongings, I stared out of the windows trying to fix my location. It had bothered me, this not knowing where I was, from the beginning. This road, that turning, not far from my house. Where was I? Where had I been?

I take a deep breath and open the front door, step over the threshold and I am home. Home, the real world where nothing has changed. I feel like a video that has been paused but now someone had pressed play and the tape would continue inexorably to the end as though it had never stopped.

'Hi mum' my eldest daughter is dosing in a chair, my son asleep cocooned in a duvet on the floor in front of the fire. He does not wake. The cats wind around my ankles, pleased to see me, still anxious by my sudden absence. Dirty dishes, empty coke cans, trail into the kitchen and lead to the over flowing sink of waiting washing up. I pick up a crumpled chocolate wrapper and try to shove it in the bin that refuses any more. Hang up my coat. Turn on the taps, collect plates and mugs and forks. The video continues from the previous Thursday or Wednesday or Friday or maybe last month. I can't tell. Nothing changes.

Evening comes and I am alone. My daughter cooked dinner for us both before she left. I smiled. Grateful. Touched by her concern. Hugging her, reassuring her that I was ok, I felt fine, she could go home to her student house without concerns for me. Her brother would be home later, everything was good, no need to worry.

I sat in a chair and stared at the walls.

Conclusion

How strange that this should be the most difficult part to describe, to write about. The time after I was discharged from hospital. It is not easy to recollect events, or to remember in which order things happened. Was I alone that first night? How many days before my son returned to school? How often did my eldest daughter stay over? I don't know. I only remember being alone, and frightened.

Once, in the beginning, I began to tell a friend on the phone how I felt. I heard the tension in his voice. 'What are you scared of? What do you mean?' Was that exasperation shading into a sharpness of impatience that I heard or imagined? Laugh and dismiss my words. It doesn't matter. No one wants to know. No one understands. And I can't explain.

What is there to explain anyway? I am well. I must be. They sent me home. Alone. There is just me. If there was something wrong I would still be in hospital or there would be someone. Wouldn't there?

For weeks I slept downstairs on the sofa. Barely leaving the somehow safety of the lounge. I did not dress. There was no need as I never undressed. If I ate, I ate cereal, bread, whatever came to hand that needed no preparation.

Some where amongst the lost days I would collect the fears together like random threads. Gather than into a tangled knot clutched in my fist. I went into college, one day, two days, three times? A freak. A failure. Mouths that smiled and eyes that slid sideways not wanting to see, to be touched by the unmentionable.

My tutor, a college counselor, a member of the support staff, so kind, so supportive when no one else wanted to know. I was, am, so grateful, even as I let them down. The fear, the blackness, too enormous. The doctor at the clinic told me to quit. It did not matter at my age. Only the young begin careers. For me there were only inconsequential hobbies.

I tried. I swear to God I tried. I had to help myself. I knew that, know that. It was and is up to me. Jesus! How I tried! I took an advocate with me to the clinic. I would be heard. Would get what I needed. No resources. If things became more serious they would reconsider allocating me a CPN, maybe. I want to be dead. Life lies in piles of unopened letters and dirty dishes drowning me. What counts as serious?

I retreat further, smile at who ever asks and say I am fine.

Slowly, I find pretend days. Make the house tidy and clean myself up days. Wear my ok mask for the occasional visitor. No one unexpected so no one sees the beneath. No one looks to closely anyway. The mask becomes real. As suddenly as it had descended the depression has vanished.

I went to a party. I spent a weekend in London. Two weekends. I made plans. Began projects. Threw out my medication.

The doctor at the clinic said great, don't come back for 6 months. The GP said wonderful, forget the pills. I stayed up late and woke up early. I could be anything I wanted, do anything. Life was good.

It was as if the previous months had never happened. Was it me? Was I that woman phoning the clinic in desperation late one Friday afternoon? Who then lay awake in the darkness waiting for Monday and ten minutes of some strange doctors time? Ten empty minutes? Had that been me, scuttling home from town shaking with panic?

Never again.

Until the next time.

Until the day I woke up to find myself once more peering through darkened glass.

Alone on this side.

The world on the other.

Comments

[TLC]

Are you ok now? I know I am leaving a lot of comments on your blog, but I think I know where you are at. (or were at) I have mentioned it a few times on various entries, but have they diagnosed you as bipolar? We used to call it manic depression, and it is high, highs full of much creativity, and low lows full of death and despair. Where sometimes you can't even move. In between, there is Anxiety, sometimes.

I hope you have gotten help. Out of control bipolar is absolutely hell.

Hang in there and if you ever want to chat with someone you don't know (But who gets what you are saying..) email me.

I would email you, but don't want to invade.

TLC