I remember walking out of that mood ward for the last time. I'm not meant to be writing anymore tonight, I've plunged into the depths and my manic brain needs time to slow down, to calm down, I need to sleep and to let go of all of this. I know more about how my head works these days. But I skipped a few years in the last post and it's lingering.
I remember that exit. After years of coming to terms with this fractured life I was supposed to now accept, this illness that had apparently rendered me so disabled, so limited in the world, I remember the day I left. It was my relationship with the one head doctor that had me bound for so long, something like a munchausens by proxy, he convinced me of the seriousness of my condition, the dangerousness of my freedom, and of my terrible vulnerability. Without him to treat me and to protect me from myself, I was lost. It sounds extreme but I've read diary entries and spoken to my parents in years since, and there's no question that this doctor wielded a power over us that was of a supra rational quality and that was beyond question in every sense. No one should wield that sort of power over another. This was an extremely problematic treatment relationship and it continued for a long time, causing significant and increasing harm to me over that period.
The exit finally occurred upon this doctors eventual retirement. He had retired from his treatment role in all other respects many years earlier - I was his only patient for a long time - and when he finally handed my care over to another doctor, it was as though suddenly the wool was lifted from my eyes. I was of course terrified initially at the prospect of his retirement - but after the fact, it took less than one week for me to leave. I remember walking into the room I shared with another patient and saying out loud: "this isn't my life." I walked into the new doctor's office and told her I would be leaving. She threatened to schedule me - but for some reason, the spell had been broken and I was able to hold enough calm to weather the test. The last words I heard from the clinic were simply, "You'll be back." I wish I could tell you that the story got better after this - unfortunately, the dark days had not even started yet - but I can tell you very happily that I never once went back to that clinic.
But for all the rock bottoms I went on to endure, the treatment that I suffered in those early days at the hands of practitioners who were charged with my care is something that still really upsets me. For all my struggles with addiction, there was a sense in which I was an active agent, trying always to grapple with my own darknesses and to find myself in amongst the mess. I was always there in my own life, I was making choices and living and however many times I fell down, I tried again, and I'm proud of that struggle. My experience during those mood disorder years of what I would now characterise as institutional abuse was of an entirely different character. I was paralysed and therefore in a sense, unable to struggle. It seemed so unfairly thrust upon me - and I guess I'll never know how much of my later journey was a result of what happened to me then. Not really worth dwelling on those questions. Well, not tonight anyway.
Comments