The psychiatrist sat across from me. A nurse and another lady, who I believe was a social worker, sat behind him and to his right. I sat across the large desk from them all. The door of the office was closed to allow for the privacy of the weekly meeting between the medical staff and the patient of the psychiatric hospital. The psychiatrist looked slightly annoyed and also confused when I asked him what the treatment plan was.
‘The medication is the treatment’, he replied.
Sitting in that room I attempted to present myself in a stoic manner. Professional. Unemotional. I didn’t know them and they sure as hell weren’t going to get to know the real me. When I heard his answer I could feel the emotions rising up in me but I remained controlled. All I needed and wanted was to get rid of the pain and shame of who I was and their answer was to medicate me twice a day and leave me to my own devices for the rest of the time.
It was week three in the psychiatric hospital. Week one had been spent in a locked ward. The week previous to that was spent in a general hospital, under observation. In the days before I had tried to take my own life. To die.
Now I was a patient of a psychiatric hospital. At that stage I had worked in the emergency services for 20 years and I would pride myself on being the one who helped when others were in distress. In reality, I had been working relentlessly throughout my life to the point of burnout. As long as I worked I didn’t have to think or to feel. As long as I worked I didn’t have to come to terms with my own lack of self-worth and shame. But I eventually found out that this was not a strategy that worked. I was burnt out. I was depleted. I was lucky to be alive and yet now I was dealing with the shame of attempting to end my life on top of my lifelong lack of self-worth and shame which I had developed early on in my life.
From the outside looking in, others would think I had a good life. A wife, two children, a good career. Inside, I have always battled with myself. I have felt like an outsider my entire life. A sense of disconnection with those around me. I grew up in the 80’s with a lack of cohesion in our family unit. I have blocked most of it out and have developed the ability throughout my life to compartmentalise and forget things. I have very few memories of my childhood. No good memories.
I would never have imagined that the way I thought about myself in my youth would still be with me as I near 50 years of age, but it is. I am still dealing with the battles inside of me. But I have been able to access supports that have helped. I am here. I am alive.
