15 minute checks

If you ask me where I reside at the minute, I can honestly say, ‘I’m not sure!’

Right now, as I type on, what seems to be my best friend, ‘Norman’, I am writing from a place of uncertainty, a place I don’t know will be mine in the next fifteen minutes, not to mention the next few days!

As you have probably gathered, I’m currently in hospital. I suffer from borderline personality disorder, or BPD for short. The condition has a very uneasy and unfortunate title. When people ask me questions about the condition, the main one is usually, ‘how many personalities do you have?’ That isn’t what the condition is at all! Basically, what it means is that I process my emotions differently than others. I’m on a myriad of medication, not to treat the BPD, but to treat the complications that come with it. My medication treats depression and psychosis, both of which haven’t shown their head in such a long time, that was until December.

In December my consultant psychiatrist begged me to get my ass into hospital, and quick! I was alarmed at her urgency, but I refused point blankly, purely on the basis that I was supposed to be looking after my dementia ridden granny for the two-week period which included, Christmas, New Year’s, and my birthday. I was eager to portray the urgency I had about my commitment! My granny, being 93, and declining rapidly, made me feel determined to keep that two week plan I had made, irrespective of my mental health. I literally had to choose whether to look after myself or keep my commitment and have no regrets. I obviously chose the latter. To me it was imperative! In retrospect, it was probably the wrong choice, but to me, at the time, I was determined to have no regrets as I was certain it would be the last Christmas in that house! If my granny died tomorrow, I could say I have no regrets, and a nursing home is on the near horizon!

As with all admissions, I was given an ECG. It showed that it had differed greatly since my last one, the medication being the culprit. I was faced with a change from an anti-psychotic I had consumed for over twelve years, to a newer one with less side effects.

During the titration, I became very unwell. My psychiatrist worried, hurried me down to the ‘special care’ ward. In that ward you aren’t allowed any technology whatsoever. My phone was taken off of me, as was my computer, ‘Norman’! I felt lost! I was moved from a bed near the window in the bay, to a bed right beside the nurse’s station where I wasn’t permitted to close the curtain so they could see me at all times. I had supervised showers, as I was determined to be a ‘high risk patient’ and had to alert them when I needed the bathroom so a nurse could stand outside the door, opening it to check that I was ok every thirty seconds.

In ‘special care’ the nurses do a check on each of the twelve patients every fifteen minutes. Low and behold, when the psychosis hit during the titration, as I was mentally prepared it would, I wasn’t even allowed in the TV room without the door being opened fully, where I watched ‘The Greatest Showman’ everyday as per agreement with my psychologist. His reasoning behind it was that when you sing along to the songs you know, you’re actually using a different part of your brain, one in which he wanted me to exercise.

My only saving grace on the ward was my brother. He knew I loved to build Lego, having two massive bins of the stuff at home which I take out when I’m struggling. My psychologist applauded him for his thinking. Real Lego is expensive, but micro bricks, the type of my brother was buying for me and having delivered to the hospital, is a cheap form of the product. The pieces, being tiny, had to be sorted into colors and shapes, something which relaxes me, before any building took place, as they all came in the one bag. Also, because the pieces were so small, and the instructions so vague, it took longer to build each piece! Once one was constructed, it was removed from my possession, and I was given a fresh one.

As I was in the bay, the nurses refusing to move me from their sight, I experienced many neighbors, some being lovely, others being so sick mentally, that I couldn’t cope with them. Every fifteen minutes a nurse would arrive at the bay with a clipboard and pen to count for everybody’s whereabouts. As you can gather, along with no technology, there was a rule that no one on the ward was allowed leave, not even to go to the shop. The nurses did two shop runs a day, but I didn’t avail of that service as the shop here is extortionate! You could pay three times as much for an item than you would pay in a shop on the outside. It knows the patients in the hospital can’t leave, due to covid restrictions, and so the price of a toothbrush is €7! I’m one of the lucky ones however, as my mom was in a position to visit twice a week and kept me stocked up on goodies!

Because the old anti-psychotic made me hungry, and the new one not as much, I wasn’t really eating any of what my mother was bringing in. I was living off crackers and cheese that was wheeled out on a tea trolley every evening at 7:30.

I’m not going to divulge on many of the ways I tried to commit suicide during the five weeks stay in ‘special care’ as I don’t want to upset anyone but let’s just say that the nurses had every right to treat me the way I was treated! As my distress levels rose, the longer the old anti-psychotic left my system, I found that the only way I could cope, apart from building the micro bricks, was sitting in one of the two communal rooms in the dark on the floor. I felt it grounded me, both literally and figuratively. Unfortunately, some of the nurses thought that ridiculous and dragged me back to my bedside to continue with the latest micro brick project. Others checked every fifteen minutes to make sure I was ‘safe’ in doing so and left me be.

In ‘special care’, the ratio of patients to nurses is 3:1. That was useful, to a point. When I became psychotic however, they couldn’t help me as my mind was attacking itself with ideas and scenarios that simply didn’t exist! I couldn’t cope with that information, which made me even more distressed and the likelihood of me hurting myself grew.

Eventually, the psychiatrist in charge of the ward, who only saw patients on Mondays, told me that if there were no ‘incidences’ for five days straight, she would move me to the ward in which I currently reside. It was tough, but I persevered and begun cooperating with the nurses, even though my mind was still attacking itself, and I began to ask if I could sit on the floor in the dark. The issue of safety was great, but they allowed me to do it for fifteen minutes at a time, the space between each check.

When the fifth day of no incidences eventually appeared, I was cleared to move to this ward. I was waiting a further five days for a bed to become available, each of which I tried my hardest to comply with the plan.

As I was moving from ‘special care’ to here, ‘Dean’s Swift’, the quantity of micro brick builds I had accomplished was commended. I happened to be slowly able to regulate my thoughts, enough to ask the manager, who I knew from when she was a nurse on another ward and had a good relationship with, if I could possibly have a room.

On the fifth day of waiting eagerly, a room became available, this room, and I had all of my technology returned back into my possession. I was ecstatic to have my computer, ‘Norman’, back more than anything, as he is a gaming laptop and I can create stories and continue with my book, ‘The hidden painting’! I felt guilty when I realized I was in ‘special care’ for longer than I had assumed! The guilt hit me like a ten-ton weight being dropped in my stomach! I was in there for many weeks, all the while being checked on every fifteen minutes, but in reality, I was watched every second!

When I moved into this room, the first thing I did was have a shower in the ensuite unsupervised. It was heaven not having someone take away your dignity by watching you wash, scanning your body for signs of self-harm. It was exhilarating to have a door that closed and the fifteen-minute checks, turned into thirty-minute checks. I have to take personal responsibility for my safety, alerting the nurses when I am distressed, and having the comfort of being able to sit on the floor for as long as I see fit!

As I have been in hospital for four months now, each day bringing a new challenge, I live in fear of being moved back to ‘special care’! I have been warned that if I self-harm, it’s a one-way ticket, do not pass go, do not receive €200!

I saw my psychiatrist, the one who begged me to come into hospital in December a week after the move. I am relieved that she is on my side! No one wants me to be moved back, but the fact that I still am not allowed off the locked ward, and that I still have to be monitored closely, is restrictive! My mother still comes in twice a week, usually either on her way down, or her way back from my granny’s. She still has me stocked up on goodies which I share with a friend I made years ago who is in the same boat as me with regards not being allowed off the ward and being constantly threatened with ‘special care’!

My distress levels, although heightened to the level which surpasses that in ‘special care’, the idea of going back helps me manage them. Well, that, and my team of doctors who I have known for years. I am now able to buy my own micro bricks, a collection of completed sets building up so quickly that I’m running out of places to put them.

Writing is my favorite pastime right now. My thoughts are like they are in a fast-moving train, the trees passing by the window like a blur. I use that metaphor as the trees are actually my thoughts, moving so fast I am unable to distinguish between them!

I don’t know if I will be allowed stay in this room. I am sitting here, flying by the seat of my pants, half expecting a nurse to walk in the door at any second to tell me I’m going back ‘inside’! It’s not the nicest feeling, or the most ideal situation, so I write, and I build, mentally prepared for the fifteen-minute checks once again!