I had my first hospital admission in September 2011. It was a short admission, but it turned out to be the first of many. In 2012, I lost count of how many nights I spent sat in A&E violently expelling bodily contents from either end. I lost count of how many times I woke up in a ward on a heart rate machine, with an IV in my arm – and how many times those trips wound up in admissions to the psych unit.
I remember being really depressed, and confused as well because I was hearing voices, I was seeing things move in impossible ways, and I kept getting these blanks of time and space wherein I remembered very little, if anything at all.
What I do remember from that time though, is being very scared. Someone within me wanted to die, yet I as my main person wanted to live. Someone within me wanted to kill me, yet I wanted to survive like I always had done. Someone within me was overdosing and doing a pretty damn good job at trying to end it, yet I, I was just a passenger in my own life. I was consumed, controlled and at mercy of my illness.
I remember one night in A&E, when the nurse couldn’t say, “you’re going to be OK”, instead she said, “We’re trying to help you, but I can’t guarantee anything”. I remember laying in my bed something along the lines of “fuck this shit” and listening to Birdy and Silver Swans. They say not to listen to depressing when you’re down, but there was something calming for me to be found in these songs.