Wednesday, 15 October 2008

Who Decided To Call This A "Funny Farm"?

I am feeling strangely disjointed right now. Everything is still up in the air which is driving me insane- I obsessively plan everything as far in advance as possible, from where I am going right down to what I will eat. I like details, like consistency, like to be in control. So many things are in other people's hand right now- hands I don't trust, and hands I want to slap away from keeping hold of *my* future.

I'm getting confusing messages from various people regarding my treatment, living options, aftercare, relationships. Different people say different things and I'm not even sure who is in charge or who is doing what. I should be doing it. But I can't. This is all tied up to bureaucracies (seriously- right now various organisations are literally arguing about whose responsibility I am for housing since nobody is able to determine my last fixed address). Where I live affects where I go for treatment. Where go for treatment affects outcome. Sad, but true. The NHS is AMAZING purely because it exists, but it truly has earned it's nickname "the postcode lottery".

But I digress.

I am grappling around, making lots of phone calls, speaking to lots of people- trying to figure out what my options are and what the best course of action is right now.

Meanwhile, I am still in hospital. There is nothing funny about this farm. From the second my eyes snap open at 5 am, I am surrounded by noise. One patients singing at the top of his voice as he paces up and down, banging the walls. One person darting around muttering to nobody in particular, then yelling out, "do you understand?" repeatedly. One patient who laughs hysterically 24/7 (yes, even in his sleep), then there are the ones who appear relatively "normal" then mid-conversation you realise that the topic has switched to something so bizarre you are suddenly reminded exactly where you are living. Needless to say, I spend as much time going out for long walks as possible. I am walking about 6-7 hours a day- I go out, keep my head down and pound the streets until I am too tired to think anymore. I can't "think" because my mind takes me back to the same thoughts, the same feelings, the same desperation that led me here in the first place. This is a REALLY difficult place to live in. It's even harder to think that whilst I may not talk to imaginary people or hold a belief system that the world is conspiring against me, I am enough in need of help that the same doctors treating the other patients, deem me too much of a risk to myself to leave.

I just want to feel better. This isn't a healing environment. My eating disorder runs rampant, my emotions are wildly out of control, I can't sleep and with each passing moment, feel more and more out of touch with reality. But I both need and want help. I know the steps to take, and I am NOT just making excuses, but I need to be in a different environment before anything can even have the potential to change. My priority right here and right now is getting through each hour. Between the chaos on the ward and the chaos in my head, it's proving difficult. But I am managing. Somehow.

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