I know it's been a while since I've been reading my Bible. I know it's been a while since I said a serious prayer. But what about you? Where are you? Why do you allow all this to happen to me? Why do you allow the separations, the injections, the violations from my side? Why do you allow me to have become the person I am?
I wish it were all different. It's so unfair, Jesus. I'm losing friends and family, all because of the fact that they don't understand my illness. Why did you give me everything from this illness called Borderline Personality Disorder - BPD from now on - and why does my sister have nothing from it? I mean, we have the same parents, and I assume we've had the same education, although of course, she was alone for six years before I spoilt her life. Maybe that's it, maybe that's why she doesn't want me in her life anymore. Plus the BPD. If only she'd had some characteristics, then maybe she'd understand me better, but you saved her from this illness.
Jesus, I'm losing friends too. I've been at the CIB for a month now, and I have only had visits from 3 different friends, 4 if you count the one that is on her way. These are lonely days. I miss my friends, but I think they're afraid for what they're going to see. Although I have to admit that the horror stories about the CIB were slightly exaggerated. Yes, I've been in the isolation cell, 7 times already, but only for short amounts of time. The longest separation lasted two and a half hours. What's worse is that they give me IM medication, injections that is, although that is to avoid the isolation cell. Still, it hurts and I need two injections per day to be able to make the day.
Dear Jesus, I don't have great wishes for X-mas. I don't want big presents, I only want my mental health back. I want the demons gone. I want the voices gone. I want to be out of this hospital a.s.a.p., although they've told me it'll probably last at least some 6 months before I can get back to society. That's an awful lot of time, if you ask me. Jesus, why? I think I'm backsliding. I haven't been in church for a long time, because I was admitted to the hospital in Leiden first and now in the Hague. But why, Lord, why does even the pastor seem to have forgotten about me? They can say that they pray for me, but prayer alone won't help me. I also need to be able to talk to them. To see them. To communicate with them...
Jesus, actually I think I'm a little bit mad at you. Why do you allow all this to happen to me? The past 14 years have been like hell, although of course, I've no idea what hell looks like exactly. However, for me it was enough to feel like hell. Dear Jesus, be merciful and careful with me. I need you so much. I promise I'll try to start reading my Bible again. However, it's not easy when you feel so rejected, if you know what I mean...
That resumes my first week at the Centre for Intensive Treatment (CIB) very well. I have a lot of difficulties to adapt to my new environment + I can't go outside. I have no privileges so far, even not after a week. I'm not to be trusted, they say, because I have these frenzies in which I kick at doors and stuff. Right they are, however hard it is to admit. Furthermore, I bounce my head against the wardrobe, against the walls, against the bathroom cabinet. Bruises everywhere on my head. Same goes for my knuckles. As a karateka, I like to punch, so I punched at the wardrobe, the walls and the bathroom cabinet. Painful, but only the day afterwards...
It hasn't been easy. They're quite severe here, although some of them have a lot of humour, which I also have, fortunately. That's one of my strengths, they've said. However, humour hasn't brought me in the isolation cell. Three times already. In 8 days. It wasn't pretty. A lot of manpower had to be called in to bring me to that freaking isolation cell. Again, just like it was in the clinic in Leiden. So again: lots of bruises, because they haven't been very gentle with me. Although I do understand, it hurts. No, not the bruises, I'm not a sissy. But in the heart. My heart feels bruised.
It's just that I had the intention to do things differently this time, to start with a clean sheat, although I knew that was barely possible. Still, I wanted to try. You never know... However, that seemed to be impossible. My behaviour hasn't changed since I'm here. Although - knock on wood - I haven't been isolated the past two days, and I hope to make that a third today. The doctors are fooling around with the meds, but I'll have to trust them. I have no other choice. Although in fact I'm a hands-on-expert, they know best. They've studied for years. And still... I also know a lot about meds already... I know this dose of Diazepam isn't going to work out.
It's tough... Being in a new place, with new people, new rules (a lot of them!), new sounds... it doesn't allow me to fall asleep at night. Or during the day. Luckily, there's the comfort room, a nice and cozy Ikea-styled room in which you can get a rest for about an hour. It looks a bit like this:
It's not all bad. You won't hear me say that. But it's adapting. And that's not easy. My fellow patiens aren't that bad either. Well, some of them aren't. I know some of them don't like me at all. But that's their problem. I'll go ahead with the ones that do like me. That's the spirit, Debz!
