Bloodletting (2 page)

He’d moved interstate, started a new job and was trying to shed his geek image. He now dressed like many others in Newtown pubs, in faded Levis and funky T-shirts with messages. He wore a leather thong around his neck, and his hair was slightly longish and tousled in a way that suggested he’d spent money on the cut, and he had recently taken up vegetarianism (not as a cause, I suspected, but as a fashion statement). He’d advertised the room in his art deco flat by putting up a card at a local café.

When I turned up to meet him, Rodney was friendly, open and very excited about what Sydney had to offer. I needed to live somewhere, so I played along with his enthusiasm, talking about film, and music, and the essay I was writing on transgression. Dressed in a denim miniskirt, Blundstone boots and a loud orange and green (long-sleeved) shirt with stylised naked women with big hair, I looked, and sounded, like the kind of flatmate he was after.

I was studying at art school, as after having completed an English degree, I’d decided I wasn’t ready for the workforce. It took less than a month to work out that it was the wrong place for me. It wasn’t like doing a casual drawing course or photography course. It was serious; the students were serious. Even when I had signed up, I’d been unsure, so was also studying for a Master’s degree in English two evenings a week. It meant that I was very busy but I didn’t see that as a problem. I saw it as a good thing: I’d taken the previous year off and was now ready to work hard. Besides, I didn’t believe being busy could actually do any harm.

I told Rodney about one of the first exercises we did at college. It involved sound and performance. I sat on the floor cross-legged in a darkened room and watched as three of my classmates stood on a makeshift stage and made sounds with carrots. Rhythmically, they chewed them, they chopped them and they blended them.

He laughed and decided on the spot that I’d be someone who’d be fun to live with. I was offered the room.

At the start, I was on my best behaviour and careful not to let him see my arm. I went to uni, wrote my essays, and worked at the weekends in the state gallery shop. I wasn’t seeing my friends— as I’d become more miserable there seemed little point—and my relationship with my parents wasn’t good, but I was coping. It was enough.

Then Alex contacted me. As he’d been the one to call, not me, I felt on surer ground. He really did want to see me. Not that either of us had changed.The time we spent together was as stifling, stressful and tense as it had always been.

We drank together and we slept together. Not that the latter was much fun, due largely to the Prothiaden, the antidepressant I was still taking. It didn’t cheer me up, but did make me tired, listless, and not at all interested in sex.

Gradually, over the next few months, things deteriorated. I found myself staying in bed until 5 pm, only getting up so that Rodney wouldn’t know.The numbness and lethargy were almost worse than the intense guilt I experienced as a result of not being able to function.

I moved around in a haze, finally dropping out of art school. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone and no-one had my phone number.

My doctor, who really did try to help, explained that depression, along with affecting your mood, often meant that simple things became difficult. I didn’t believe her. Instead I was angry with myself for being tired all the time, angry that walking up the street to do the shopping had become a trial, angry that I couldn’t drive to Canberra— which was just three hours away—without stopping every half-hour for a rest. I was angry that I couldn’t understand things I knew I could do. I really believed that if only I tried harder, it would all be fine.

I felt it was my fault: I might be suffering from ‘depression’ but that didn’t mean I couldn’t will myself out of it.

I was still just able to write the essays I was required to do for my Master’s degree. They didn’t involve new technology, or new thoughts—which had been a real problem at art school—so I could bluff my way through. My marks dropped off but I was still doing well enough. The real problem now wasn’t studying. It was the thoughts of self-harm.

At first I thought I could control the fantasies but they were beginning to take over. Sometimes I gave into them, and was then safe while the wound healed. But I was physically healthy, so this usually didn’t take long. The images, when they came back, became worse the longer I resisted them. I didn’t just think of carving up my arms anymore. I began to picture cutting off fingers and standing at the mirror, slashing my face. It was at this point that I rang the help line—and discovered that my thoughts weren’t something I could talk about, even to an anonymous stranger at the other end of the phone.

My doctor made a booking for me with the visiting specialist who did mental health assessments once a month at the university health centre. My first visit to a psychiatrist was not a success. I arrived late, antagonistic and hung-over; so hung-over that I had to dash out of the surgery to throw up.

The psychiatrist looked at my file, looked at me, and asked a few questions about my drinking habits and drug use.‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

I didn’t like her. She was cold, dismissive and I had no desire to tell her anything.‘No.’

‘My advice then is to cut down on the drinking. I don’t think you need therapy. I’d suggest you keep taking the antidepressants and talk to your doctor if necessary.’

And with that, the consultation was over.

During my next visit to my doctor, I admitted that I hadn’t presented my case very well. I hadn’t told the psychiatrist anything very much: certainly not what was worrying me. She gave me another referral. It was someone she didn’t know personally, but she said to let her know if there were any problems.

Two weeks later, I caught the train out to Bondi Junction. His office was on the tenth floor, looking back towards the city. It could have been that of an accountant.The furniture looked as though it had been picked up at a government auction and there were few books. I immediately felt uneasy.

First of all he asked me questions about my age, education, family and general health. He then asked me to describe my symptoms.

‘Right,’ he said.‘I’d like you to do a few tests to determine what your short-term memory is like and how your general cognitive abilities are.’

After that, I told him about my desire to hurt myself—including the more recent graphic images—and he handed me a pamphlet.‘Read this carefully, and we can talk about it when you see me next week. I don’t believe it’s depression you’re suffering from. It might be a form of schizophrenia though.You can make an appointment with my receptionist.’ He stood up, which was apparently my signal to leave.

I was shaking on the way home as I read the pamphlet, appalled and terrified. All I knew about schizophrenia was that it was associated with homelessness, and that people who suffered from it were put in mental hospitals.Was this going to happen to me? Were these thoughts going to become worse? Was this why I couldn’t control them anymore?

I couldn’t believe it.

I told Alex that night.He didn’t believe it either.‘The man’s a fucking dickhead. Don’t go back to him.You’re not schizophrenic—but you’re certainly not well. Find someone who can treat you properly.’

I was desperate. I started off miserable but was now scared as well. It was clear that I needed to find a decent specialist.

I’d recently seen my old family doctor while visiting my parents, and had mentioned that I was taking antidepressants. He’d immediately scribbled the contact details of a colleague on a piece of paper, saying she was great, and if I felt I needed any more help, she was the person to contact.

After scrabbling around in the shoebox of receipts, letters and bank statements on my desk, I found her number. I don’t know how long Isat on the stairs staring at it, too nervous to call. I wasn’t frightened of her but of the fact that maybe she couldn’t help me. An increasingly large part of me believed that this was it, this was my life and it wasn’t going to get better.The problem was me.

I didn’t want that part of me to be proved right, so forced myself to make the call to my third psychiatrist in two months.

It was around 6.30 pm, and she was still at work. I introduced myself, and explained what the problem was. Initially, I was embarrassed but gradually, as she asked about how I felt, about what I had done, and about my family, I felt more comfortable. She was listening and taking me seriously.

And then she threw me into a complete spin, saying, ‘It sounds like it would be beneficial for you to have a brief stint in hospital.’ My doctor had mentioned this possibility before but I’d dismissed the idea. I didn’t want to. I didn’t need to. I was not sick.

The psychiatrist phrased it as though it would just be a break, some ‘time out’. She also thought I needed to be properly assessed and it was obvious I wasn’t coping.‘Can you hold on for an hour or so while I make a few calls?’ she asked.

I said yes, but wasn’t convinced she’d ring back.

She did. At 7.30 pm she called to confirm that a bed would be available the following day at N_, a private psychiatric clinic. The word ‘clinic’ rather than hospital didn’t make it any more

appealing.

I scribbled down the address and listened as she gave me directions for the next morning. In the meantime, I was told not to make any decisions bigger than what to wear or what to eat for dinner. Most importantly, I wasn’t to harm myself.

She suggested that I ask a friend to keep me company for the evening, and then go to bed early. I just needed to get through the next twelve hours.

I promised her I’d look after myself, then put down the phone, relieved but shaking.What little knowledge I had of mental hospitals came from films like
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
and
Frances.
I had visions of people shuffling around in their pyjamas, drugged into tranquillity. I thought of bars on windows, linoleum floors and the invasive smell of disinfectant. But if that was what it took to stop me hurting myself, then I was prepared to submit.

I didn’t call anyone. I had never intended to. It was too hard to deal with other people, particularly those I knew. On the one hand I didn’t want to spread my miserable feelings; on the other, I couldn’t disguise them anymore. I felt like a leper and it was better just to stay out of the way. I did go to bed early though, my mind whirling as I stared at the buttercup walls. In a moment of enthusiasm when I’d first moved in, I’d painted them. It felt like they were ridiculing me in their cheerfulness. But finally something was going to happen. It was all about to be taken out of my hands.

I fell asleep exhausted.

Rodney was home when I woke up the next morning. I was going to have to say something about going away. I could kill two birds with one stone: he had a car so I could get a lift and I could also tell him a bit about what was going on in my head, not the thoughts of self-harm of course, but the depression. I could stop pretending that things were okay. Pretending was not only exhausting, it was also making me dislike Rodney intensely. Somehow I felt that it was his fault I couldn’t be honest. No-one talks about self-harm, so no-one talks about self-harm. It’s still a taboo subject—and no wonder. I certainly didn’t want to burden anyone with what was happening in my head. It was too graphic, too frightening. It wasn’t fair to talk about it.

While he understood the idea of depression, Rodney seemed surprised that I should need to go to hospital. I looked fine. Nevertheless, he was happy to drive me there. He wasn’t happy to come in: we weren’t friends after all, just flatmates. Rodney left me and my small suitcase on the footpath outside a large grey building with dark tinted windows. If not for the sign saying ‘Ambulances this way’ it could have been an office block.

Initially, I couldn’t even find the reception area. The café on the ground floor was closed and there seemed to be nowhere else to ask for directions. The place was deserted and all I wanted to do was sit down and cry. It wasn’t fair; this was too hard. Going to hospital was supposed to make me feel better, not worse. I was there though. I’d made the effort and I wasn’t going to let a small thing like not being able to find the entrance put me off. Besides, I wasn’t up to going home. And then I saw the lift. It had been in front of me the entire time, along with a few chairs, pot plants, several unmarked doors and a sign listing the floors and wards. I got in and pressed the button for Level 3, reception, my hand shaking. It wasn’t too late to change my mind.

But I didn’t.

Level 3 was carpeted and painted in what the decorators must have thought were soothing shades of apricot. I went through two heavy doors, both of which had glass panels at face height. (I learnt later that these doors could be locked electronically from reception.) At the end of the corridor I could see several nurses in uniform and various other people milling about. I headed in that direction. Like a movie in slow motion, it seemed to take forever to reach them. I felt sick, weak and pathetic. What kept going over and over in my mind was that I was physically well and that this was a hospital. I had no need to be there.