My hospital stay was much, much, much shorter than I expected.
I went in a week ago, resigned to losing weeks, probably months of my life. It took me about a day to be bored shitless and intensely frustrated that my life was at a necessary standstill.
That said, my psychiatrist is fantastic. Had I spent much longer in there I’m sure I would have formed an obsession around her, as counterproductive as that would have been. She’s young, stylish, sassy, and cocky as fuck.
I think she expected me to be an open and shut case. I think it piqued her interest that I wasn’t. After our first meeting she described me as “an enigma wrapped in a mystery.” That was the moment I knew we were going to get along.
It took her two half hour meetings with me, and one with my mother, to figure me out.
She diagnosed me with mental illness.
I have autistic traits, I have borderline traits, I have bipolar traits, I have ADHD traits.
I do not have enough of any one of those traits to have a “disorder”.
I have serious attachment and identity issues stemming from the emotional neglect I suffered as a small child.
But that isn’t a life sentence. I get a good psychologist and I work on that, and I could be as normal as anyone else.
I could have chosen to save myself some cash and stayed in hospital while she slowly reduces my (probably unnecessary) medication. But I chose to go home because I wanted to get on with the rest of my life.
I left late on Friday afternoon, dropped off my stuff and headed out for drinks and dinner with my bestie and her boyfriend. It was a big night and it felt like a celebration.
Maybe ambiguity is bad for some people, but for me it’s a blessing. As my psych pointed out, I hide my identity issues behind labels. To be told they can’t give me a label forces me to just be myself. I’ve never felt freer because I’ve defined myself by my illness for most of my life.
I spent all weekend house and job hunting, and even though it’s a hard slog it’s such a good feeling to finally be able to make progress.
On Sunday morning I went to see a house and meet potential flatmates. It went really well, and I decided that is where I will make my home. They’re two lovely women just a touch younger than I am, one of whom is, fortuitously, a history teacher!
I’ve gone into serious nesting mode overnight. I want to create a brighter, warmer space for myself with lashings of blush, white, and a hint of gold and baby blue.
The leopard print and burgundy I favoured in the past seems tacky and too reminiscent of the unhappy times of my life. The sexpot 20s where I sought connection and found precisely none.
I still need to get my ducks in a row financially, but I’m hoping the tax gods will shine on me and I can have the small shipment of stuff from Canberra delivered into my new home around the same time as me, in mid-July.
Blogging here these past few months has been a really enjoyable experience, but I’m not sure if I’ll have much more to say on the topic, or perhaps that’s just my hope. That finally, finally the dust will settle for a bit and normality will creep back in, and maybe, if I’m really lucky, I won’t have anything really worth writing about.
I’ll leave this open for now though, in case I feel like I have something to say, but I make no promises.