Despicable me

Nearly two weeks ago, I had a crisis at creative therapy. I can hardly remember what had happened exactly, but I know that talking about my low self-esteem and negative self-image didn’t really help. However, I’d never expected such a situation in which I was overwhelmed by the two voices I’ve been writing on and off about lately onthis blog. Still, their power has increased, doubled or even tripled in a matter of days. 

While I’m writing this, I’m hospitalised at the closed ward of a psychiatric clinic in Leiden. Yesterday, things got out of hand, and I mean really out of hand. I wanted to flee the ward, my voices were prompting me to do so, but barely had I reached the door when five men were already strangulating me on the floor. They dragged me to another corridor, where they gave me an injection. After that, they hoped I would calm down, but the voices in my head gave me a strength I’ve never experienced before. It turns out that eight men were needed to drag me to the isolation cell and to immobilise me. I was furious - that’s maybe an understatement - and the voices gave me the fuel that I needed to fight. I heard several of the nurses saying that I’d better give up and admit defeat, but I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I had this rage inside of me that goes back 13 years ago, when I got isolated for the first time in Belgium in a similar way. Still, this experience was even worse. While the men were present, they took off all my clothes and jewelry, really everything, even my pants. I was naked when they immobilised me in some wrapped blankets. At that point the injection started working, and actually I couldn’t opt for something else but to accept defeat, because I couldn’t move, I felt terrible, betrayed by the nurses and also extremely humiliated. Anyway, after my own nurse came to have a chat with me, I was allowed to dress in a special sort of shorts and long dress, and they locked me up. A psychiatrist came and had to give his opinion on the situation, and the bastard – although he seemed very friendly to me at first – was of the opinion that I had to be held here involuntarily. So I got this thing called IBS in Dutch (In Bewaring Stelling). I was locked up during nearly 24 hours in the isolation cell. It was horrible. Luckily, I slept the night away thanks to some extra meds. Now I have to wait what the judge will say next week concerning the length of my stay, which is usual three weeks. Today I met my lawyer. She’s a nice sport. I like her. I hope she will be the one defending my case next week.

However, there’s still this thing… I now feel even more worthless, even more desperate, even more hatred towards myself… Despicable me, the perfect title for this blog post. I think it’s because of the humiliation I’ve had to go through, and nothing has been done so far. I mean, I’ve been here roughly two entire days, but my meds haven’t changed, I’ve only seen the doctor in the isolation cell and the nurses try to keep me calm with some Lorazepam. As if that will bring me any good… They don’t get to the core of the problem, which is, in my opinion, the struggle with myself. Because that’s where it all started. There is still a lot of work to do over there, and I have no clue as to where to start, but they, the specialists, have to know where to start, right? Of course I want to learn how to love myself, but at this very moment it’s still a miracle that I haven’t cut myself. I’ve been fighting hard on this topic more than on all the rest concerning the tasks the voices want me to carry out.

The problem with the voices is worse than ever. I can’t remember when it was this horrible. I’m almost constantly under their influence, there’s nothing more I can say. Although not always talking, there is this kind of fog and chaos and white noise in my head. And occasionally, they come through and we have a conversation. I think I did quite well today. I even went – with the help of a nurse – to the living room where I watched some TV show. It helped somehow to catch them off guard, as if they were also watching and enjoying the show. There’s only one thing, and it bothers me, but at the same time, I feel like there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t have the permission to eat. And I haven’t eaten anything for the past two and a half days. My last banana was last Thursday at 12 PM. The strange thing is that this order is not that difficult to follow and it keeps them quiet for a while. I'm just not hungry. However, I’m also not allowed to take my meds. Just a few minutes ago, a nurse came in with my meds. I was doubting whether to take them or not. In the end I decided it would give the judge a bad impression if I didn’t take my meds. About the food, he’ll probably not know. I do have permission to drink. On the other hand, I’m not allowed to sleep. So this is the first night I’m going to try to accomplish that. It’ll be tough, and I think that eventually I’ll give in. I mean, I just took my meds, you know.

Despicable me. That’s where it all starts. If I loved myself just that tiny little bit more, if I could accept myself just that tiny little bit more, then probably things could have turned out less bad. Not well, just less bad. I’m so fucking upset with the IBS. I have never been in this situation before, and it’s almost too coincidental, but a few weeks ago, I was with my ex-psychiatrist in Utrecht as a hands-on expert, and the class had to study the file of the IBS. Now I see the same file lying on the table next to my bed, only this time with my name on it, and my data. It’s hard to swallow. This is an extreme backfall. I don’t know what to do, I’m really desperate. I’d like to write a letter to God, to ask if He can somehow save me from the worst. Because, if I listen to the voices, this is only the beginning. Deprivation from food first, now deprivation from sleep… what’s next? And the images in my head are so richly detailed and sometimes they go in slow motion so that I can catch each and every detail. They drive me insane.

It’s 11.32 PM. I’m writing this in my bed on the ward. Yesterday I was a lot worse off, because I was still in the isolation cell. Still, I was quite at peace with the situation. Now it’s different somehow. I’ve got my freedom back, albeit partly, and I want to start doing something to change things, but… where to start? The only thing I know for sure is that the voices also want revenge on the few men I recognise from the isolation procedure. They hurt me pretty badly, I’m all black and blue, almost as if I was beaten up. Some spots really hurt, and my muscles are sore. Maybe tomorrow will be better, at least, that’s what I hope.

I should get some sleep, but I can’t. First of all because I took the meds so late, and second because they’re threatening me that if I will sleep, tomorrow will be even worse.

I hope you guys out there really keep your fingers crossed so that I don’t have to be here for three weeks, which is more or less normal for an IBS. I can honestly need some support, even though you live at the other side of the world, I don’t mind. Every little bit of hope is welcome…