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©Jacqui Watson 2002
7.45am I wake up, twisted in my sheets. The dreams I'd had linger just on the edge of my consciousness, I don't know the details, but the general theme wasn't good. I decide to have a shower, I know my doctor will be in first thing to see me, and I made a goal with myself to be awake when he arrives. I guess it gives me some structure, saves me from sleeping in until 2 pm. 8 am Dressed and showered, I make my way to the dining room. Meals in the ward are not delivered to the bedside, but rather all of them are taken to the dining room. Some patients eat there, others take their trays back to their rooms. Since no one seems to want to eat this morning, I take my tray to the table and pick at my cold toast alone. It's a Monday and the hospital is buzzing with nurses and doctors doing their rounds. I wonder why my doctor always sees me first, he's here until lunch time, I think, still grumpy from the early rise. I decide a cup of tea will do this morning. One of the nurses hands me my morning medication. Some lithium for the mood swings, prozac for the depression, and a dash of seroquel thrown in for good meassure. I feel like a robot as I swallow the pills. God, what am I doing here again? 8.05am Just as I begin to rise for my morning cigarette, Dr West walks in, all 6ft of him framed in the door. Damn. "Hi, Jacqui". He says, which I've learnt is Dr West's code for 'I'll see you now.' He is a good looking man with deep dark circles beneath his eyes. I see him in his private rooms as an outpatient, and he is at the hospital every morning and every evening, and often on the weekends too. I casually wonder what kind of life he has, if any. 8.10am In the interview room, a small, stuffy office with no windows, I sit down on the armchair (which looks like it has worn a lot of use) and open my journal. Dr West is a gentle speaker and has a background in social work, but I still find it very difficult to talk to him, to open up. Somehow it is just too confronting, given an uncomfortable past with the male species I wish not to elaborate on. So the only way I can tell him how I've been is to read pages from my journal, written last night. "I hardly have the strength to go on. I wish I could sleep forever and escape this life. Things just hurt too much. I want to cry so badly, but I only manage a few tears. A great blackness has fallen on me. I feel guilty for my mum and my grandma, like it's my fault I've got depression, they're going through so much watching me suffer and I don't think I can handle this, I can't just pretend to put on a happy face anymore. I'm scared this will never end." 8.30 am After reviewing my medication and deciding to increase my prozac, the doctor says he'll see me tomorrow. I feel a bit better for getting things off my chest, even though it was hard. The extra prozac will help, but in the end it's still up to me isn't it? I resolve not to think deep thoughts at least until I've had my nicotine fix. 9 am Group therapy starts in the lounge room. The weather, date and day is written on the whiteboard. Those who have the energy sit around me in a kind of circle on the almost comfortable lounge chairs. Today there is only 5 of us. Di, the nurse who runs the groups, often gives us a word game or crossword to 'get our brains working'. Then we do some gentle stretching exercises. Each day we receive handouts and discuss various subjects. Today it is anxiety, what it is and how to control it. Sometimes the group subjects are only relevant to a few, but we all seem to stay anyway, I think it's just being around others that is comforting, doing something rather than sitting staring at the walls. Every now and then 'Super-Alan' with his black wraparound sunglasses and long grey ponytail bursts into the room and confiscates a patient. Alan is another nurse, and he interrupts us whenever the doctor wants to see a certain person. We 'christened' him 'Super-Alan' because he always looks like he's on a mission, and he's such a character! An ex-muso, he now lives on a farm with his wife, sue, who is also a nurse here. Alan is our comic relief, and it's needed in here. 11 am I wake up in a fright, how long have I been sleeping, where am I? The cleaner's have been, I realise, as the scent of strong eucalyptus oil lingers in the room. I lay back on the bed and stare at the blank TV above my bed. I should turn it on, I think. What's the point. The remote is only 2 centimeters away. That's the thing with depression, it makes you feel so useless and helpless. It just takes over your life until you get to the point where turning the TV on is too hard. If I can't do that, how will I ever finish my Tafe course? How will I ever get a job and support myself, or a husband and kids someday? And so it goes on until I just roll over and pray for the earth to swallow me. I fall into a troubled sleep. 1am I can smell lunch coming down the corridor. I wish they'd bring it to my room, I think moodily. At least then I could pick at it from a semi-horizontal position. It's Seafood Vol au Vont and chips, I see as I peek out the door. At least it's not the same glop everyday, like some other hospitals. I silently whisper a thank you for the virtues of private health cover. 3pm My lunchtime Prozac has lifted my spirits a little. I sit in the courtyard, smoking. Wondering how much my sudden good mood has to do with the pills. It's true they can't perform miracles. But I feel the medication has given me a stepping stone towards getting better, making it a little easier for me to help myself - at least for three hours after I take it, anyway. It's taken so long to get the combination of medicines just right, and I still have relapses, like now. I guess I have to be thankful that I am not continually sick, like I used to be when I was diagnosed at 12 years of age. It just comes and goes now. Although sometimes I'm not sure which is worse. 6pm Looks like I might be able to go home in a couple of days. The doctor seems to think I'm improving, slowly but surely. I wish I could give this feeling to him for a day so he knows how it feels, and how stupid his "get back on track" and "I know how you're feeling" lines sound to me. But, no, I'd never wish this depression on anyone, not even my worst enemy. I sit on my bed and flick the TV on to a mindless American sitcom. I'm not really watching it, I'm off in a fog somewhere. Fantasizing of a life where everything is perfect, beating myself up for not being perfect, and despairing because I know it will never happen. Sometimes I think I'm too hard on myself. But that's debatable. 8.30pm One of the nurses comes to my room to give me my night time medication. I settle into the hard bed, the plastic covered pillows crackling beneath me. The room is dark, the door closed to the lights of the corridor, just a thin crack of light peeks under it. I feel so helpless. What is wrong with me? Why can't I just be normal? A few tears roll down my cheeks. As I drift between sleep and waking, I dream of having three wishes. One of them would be that I would never have to feel the pain and emptiness, the fear, that I am feeling now. The second would be that mental illness was no longer a hidden, misunderstood illness. That people knew that simply 'snapping out of it' was not an option. That this is a real illness, like diabetes or asthma. Something that is often out of our control. And my third wish would be that people no longer fear telling others they suffer from depression. I don't want to advertise it - but I don't want to have to carry it around like a heavy burden, a secret I can't tell anyone until I'm sure they'll be okay with it. 3am I haven't slept a wink, so I get up and head to the courtyard for a cigarette and can of coke from the vending machine. I'm jittery and anxious, and other than pacing the floor, there's nothing else to do at this time of morning. Shannon, another patient, is up also, and we sit and talk. After three cans of coke and half a pack of cigarettes, we are still chatting. I realise that there is one thing that the doctors and nurses in here, with all their medications and info handouts, can't give me - a simple phrase: "I know how you feel". Talking to Shannon is therapy by itself for me (and likewise for her) and I feel comforted almost straight away. I almost feel hopeful as the stars fade into blue and the sun starts to rise over the horizon. With a little help, maybe I will make it . Everyone feels down every now and then. Often, it's a normal reaction to a life event such as the death of a loved one or loss of a job. If you can't seem to shake the depression, you really should see your doctor. Frequently, just a small amount of medication is needed. Sometimes, it is due to a physical cause such as an underactive thyroid or the like. Not everyone who suffers depression needs hospitalization.