It’s harder than it looks, getting admitted, these days. I don’t know if it’s down to NHS cuts or whatever, but for the third night I’ve been told, quite simply, there are no beds. So, the Crisis Resolution Home Treatment team will take care of me for now, possibly changing my medication (which I’d really rather they did in hospital but whatever), giving me therapy and generally checking up on me a few times a day to make sure I haven’t
1. Jumped off a bridge
2. Slept with anymore unreasonable men
3. Had any fun.
They checked around, and the nearest ward was London. They said they could take me there, I could stay there a few days, and as soon as a bed became available in the North, I could come home. I said no thankyou. Something about being hundreds of miles away from those I love whilst ALSO adjusting to new, powerful medication, filled me with fear and dread.
It’s quite exhausting, this whole business, but at least now they’ve given me something to tide me over, to stop all of the erratic behaviour from happening. It’s working, so that’s something, at least. They’re now checking all the fancy private hospitals, and I may end up in the Priory, which I secretly think would be pretty awesome.
Everyone keeps telling me they think this is a very brave decision, but I feel it is more necessary than it is brave. I don’t know. I don’t have much to say really. I’m super tired but my thoughts have at least calmed. It’s nice to finally have a day where they’re not running a million words a second, and I’m optimistic for what this means for my future treatment. I also found out today that apparently the drug the doctor gave me (quetiapine), isn’t technically meant to be treating bipolar. At least, not on its own. It’s meant to be a top-up used in emergencies for bipolar depression or mania, but it’s not meant to be a maintenance therapy. They’re considering putting me on an actual mood stabiliser, now that could be an anticonvulsant or an actual drug such as lithium. Whatever, I don’t care, I just want to get better.
Anyway, today whilst I was all moody and brooding, I wrote a poem. It’s called All This and Not Ordinary, after Gertrude Stein.
Now the day-trash kills the hard-woods
Like the algae kills the rock-bed, and the
Hands that swish the water like the broom
That hides the bottles, shoves them all
Under my bed. And the cats eyes that line
The road ahead need real light to work
Or they’re nothing but a cute name for a
Sphere reflecting dusk.
To progress, we must forgo the urge to
Notice every movement. Take life in
Stride, as is, often cruel, sometimes kind.
Be part of small moments, all this and
Not ordinary; have a unique voice and
Footprint that cannot be killed by gentle
Breezes (unlike yours, my love; much
More than what you ever were, my love).
I am honest to the point of brutality:
The addendum kept your name in.
There it sits, right on the flyleaf, like a
Coke can spoils the brook. When the
House-cat harried the mouse, I think you
Took some inspiration. It toyed. Tore.
Ripped. But saved, so as to return
For a swipe, a bite, as needed, to hear
Its squeals and feel alive and its
Lungs the size of thumbprints, forces
War-cries, as natural as the heart forces
The blood to go on rushing. It was morning.
Maybe midday. And you couldn’t move
Your eyes away.
I talk to you in its voice, now. Its toothpick
Bones. In drunken throes, and ribbons of
Grief – not for you, but for me, the me I used
To be. And the songs I once knew, I am
Humming humming humming to a tune at least
We all might know; in my blackest fits
I cannot claim to be unique
In freeing from the fact of being
Someone unworthy’s plaything.