I started getting more comfortable in the new ward, the routines, however were impossible to adjust to. Not only did the nurses come into my room every night on a regular basis, we also had to do gymnastics every morning. I wasn’t exactly the gymnastics-type, and I was filled with dread every time it was my turn to come up with an exercise. We took turns. It was torture. I wanted to go home.
My parents were on vacation when I was first hospitalised, but came for a visit as soon as they got back. I was waiting for them to get there. They finally came. My mother did all she could to be brave, but her eyes gave her away. She was sad. We went for a walk and they helped me going to the supermarket to pick up a few things. It had been six months since I had set foot in a supermarket. I had too much anxiety. Everything was in motion and came towards me. My parents had done my shopping for a long time. Every Friday after work, they would bring me my croceries. Yoghurt (in small cups because of the snails), granola, coffee and milk. I could buy smokes and everything else at the kiosk. Supermarkets were the enemy. And the snails.
I didn’t tell anyone at the ward about the snails. The dosage of medicine was finally being reduced and I didn’t wanna change that. Fashion week was approaching. The busiest time of year. I had to help C. We had to go to IKEA. She picked me up at the ward. I felt like I was gonna die. Every wall, floor, ceiling and goods were in motion. I couldn’t focus. I started sweating and shaking. When I came back to the ward, they asked me how it had been. Fine, I said with a smile and went to my room and cried. Just like that time in the supermarket, I promised myself NEVER to set foot in IKEA again.
Fashion week was hell. We had hired a new sales rep in cooperation with two other small companies. I didn’t like her. I couldn’t stand being there. I couldn’t stand anything. I was in a daze on strong sedatives. I wasn’t sure I could do this. I went back to the ward. Before going in, I took a deep breath and put on my best face. I told the nurses about what I had experienced and all the exciting people I had seen. They giggled and asked questions. I soaked up their admiration. Back in my room I fell apart. Could I do this?
After a month I took my final Zyprexa. FINALLY! Because now I could get discharged. I was behind. At the company. In life. We think it would be a good idea if you stayed here a little while longer, they said. No thanks, I was fine. I promised them to make an appointment with PC, a psychiatrist they said was good. I got an appointment 5 months later. I was free and promised myself NEVER to get hospitalised in a psychiatric ward again.