I won’t call Hipster Doc a hipster any more; apparently he was ten years ahead of the face hair trend and is somewhat put out at the bandwagon jumpers. We all know I mean but let’s go with Beardy Doc for now. I like a lot of things about him. I like that he listens, and that he doesn’t see himself as above the rest of the ward staff – for example, today he brought up and gave out the post.
Last week he asked me whether he should read my blog. I said that of course I couldn’t stop. Here it is/I am, out in public domain. I don’t know if he is reading it or if anyone else is and sharing the juicy bits (like, um, fictitious names for staff). Sometimes I feel it would just be simplest if, as with some real life friends, we could start a conversation from the assumption that we both know what’s in the most recent blog post. Today is one of those days.
I haven’t said much about my treatment plan. I do have one, and it seems sound, but like everything here it’s a slow burner. First step is to get me out of the cycling (which is kind of reducing anyway) and reduce the depressive thoughts (which are becoming the main modality). This is to be achieved by boosting, with the support and advice of the pharmacists, my lamotrigine dose above the usual top whack. Despite the amount I’m taking, my blood levels remain at the low end of therapeutic, and increases of lamotrigine have in the past produced a swift uplift in mood. Next we swap (slowly, I hope) quetiapine for another antipsychotic. But right now we don’t even have the results of the double-check of how much lamotrigine is in my blood, and the dose won’t be increased until that’s been received.
At the time of the care planning meeting I felt very positive about this strategy. It makes sense, although it’s scary, because all medication change is scary – but after all, I’m the one who’s been pushing for a change. Four days poat CPA meeting I’m struggling. I don’t think I can take the wait for the bloods, for the increase, for the increase to kick in.
I bought ear plugs the other day as I have a rather noisy next door neighbour (the purchase could not have been better times as that very day the panic alarm got stuck on and had to be fixed by technicians several hours later). I am also kind of using them to block out mornings, which remain the hardest part of my day. Easier to pretend you don’t know your door is being knocked upon when you can barely hear it.
I was already awake and dreading the knock when they called me to get my meds, but I dragged my heels, curling up small and trying to be invisible. Had I been at home I would’ve simply stayed in bed and skipped my meds, but I guess being prevented from doing that is kind of the point of being here. As I hid I was obsessing about escape and about overdose. The escape thing has been going on for about a week. Everything hinges on getting escorted leave and doing a runner. When I was supposed to go my local general hospital last week I cancelled the appointment as I felt so compelled to use surprise and the advantage of being in my local area to facilitate a disappearance. I did share that plan with staff so probably if I do go out again I won’t be allowed the contactless card I wanted to use to get away on a bus and back to the edge of the tracks. I’m an informal patient, but no one’s going to let me out alone with a debit card any time soon.
My mind keeps on working on other exit strategies. Maybe I could just ask to take £5 in coins to the hospital shop and run away the nearest tube, buy a one way ticket and get back, once again, to the edge of the tracks. It has, for some reason, to be that particular place or it won’t work.
I thought of going to my pharmacy, who would’ve been ignorant of admission and have dosette boxes ready for collection, had Tom’s been there ahead of me there. He’s also ahead of me in not paying in my last freelancing cheque, so I have reduced access to money. I guess all this falls into the “thank him later” category *grits teeth*
In other words, I’m into sneaky territory again, but I now feel so cornered that the plans become less and less practicable and more wildly dependent on me being able to run faster than I probably can. And so I feel more and more cornered. More and more in need of escape.