Tag: mental health

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All the weird side effects I had with Olanzapine vanished immediately after I relapsed. But now, when I squeeze hard until I bruise myself, I still see a glimpse of mother milk – an off-white murky liquid drop that’s enough for me to stop thinking about meth and related experiences.

I was back to my version of normal. In the morning, I’d smoke meth and take Seroquel to sleep at night. I started with 50 mg (one pill) nightly, but I lost track of how many I took towards the end of my addiction routine. It was a lot. I proudly can say Seroquel addiction or dependence is way far worse than meth addiction. It doesn’t show visible symptoms while on it, but the real struggle begins when you try to quit cold turkey. It’s supposed to be tapered down gradually with your psychiatrist’s supervision, but I just stopped, so your experience might differ from mine. Over the years, I’ve tried quitting various meds cold turkey, and Seroquel was the worst. Insomnia was worse than after smoking meth: (seroquel)want to sleep but can’t sleep VS (meth)WHO SAYS I NEED SLEEP, nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness, constipation and diarrhoea… you name it. The withdrawals lasted only a month or a little longer, so it was still doable, considering what I’ll describe later in this post.

Six months into my relapse, I found myself calling the cops because I missed the company of my cellmates. I was lonely, bored, and most importantly, sick of smoking meth. Being delusional wasn’t as fun as before. Once I realised I was delusional, I didn’t even get high and perform crazy – which is the whole point of doing drugs. I was tired of breaking my electronic devices and spending more money on them than on drugs. At some point, fortunately, I got bored with everything I guess. I called 000, oh wait no, I called beyond blue first in the midst of a crying whale manic episode, I threw my iPhone X from my room to the ground near the swimming pool. Surprisingly, it survived, and I’m not sure why I bought the Pixel 8 Pro and continue to suffer eternally now.

I was crying like a whale and blaming my phone for not breaking. I called Beyond Blue because I saw their number everywhere. The first person I spoke to had a Valium voice. I told her I was sad, and she asked me why. I gibberished a bit while gulping my runny nose, and her recommendation was to have a bath and drink hot tea. I said thanks and hung up, thinking it was the most valuable advice from a free suicide hotline. I called again, and this time I imagined a Karen-looking white woman. We argued because she yelled at me, claiming my signal was bad and she couldn’t hear me properly, therefore I have to stop crying and tell her what I want clearly. I told her she wasn’t a proper counsellor, and she raged. I might have hurt her by saying that; she probably didn’t study psychology and stuff to be heard those by a meth addict. I hung up again, thinking Beyond Blue was pure garbage and might even encourage people to commit suicide. I called 000 with my half-broken iPhone X, saying, “Hello, it’s me. I’m about to kill myself. Please send help.” The woman on the other end was calm and nice, asking if I had a weapon and the usual stuff the police asked the last time I got arrested. I provided my address, told her to take me asap pretty please. It was around the new year’s time, after having a Christmas party with colleagues, and (I guess) no one expected this during a holiday party. I didn’t want to spend New Year’s Eve alone, so I thought going to the mental ward was a great idea, but I was so wrong.

What I recall from that night is the kindness of the ambulance crew – two men who were exceptionally supportive. I won’t delve into details about the police, as it’s a familiar situation. However, when I came out, the entire street was blocked by police and ambulance. I hoped people wouldn’t assume that it was just another manic episode of a meth addict. We talked about holidays and other topics, creating a comforting atmosphere. They treated me not as someone with intellectual disabilities or hearing impairment but as a friend going through a tough time. There was no judgment. Oh this time, I came prepared with a substantial travel bag, anticipating the chilly environment of the hospital. I brought a few pairs of thick socks, a small emotional support blanket, and, of course, managed to sneak in some vapes. Among all the people I’ve interacted with – doctors, nurses, counsellors, Beyond Blue, and so on – the ambulance guys stood out as the best.

Although I don’t recall the specific details of our conversation, I spent a considerable time in the ambulance until the new admission process was completed around midnight. I distinctly remember that I was feeling much better after our talk and even asked them, “Can I cancel this now and go home? I feel better now.” Certainly, I found myself genuinely confined to the mental ward, and surprisingly, it was voluntary. Oddly enough, I don’t recall any other patients during this time. My focus was entirely on figuring out how to leave as soon as possible, leading me to avoid much interaction with the people there.

Think think think…

Oh, I do remember some individuals. There was a white hippie guy who always seemed to be on Molly, constantly in a lovey-dovey state, attempting to hold hands with me, which freaked me out. Eventually, I realised he does that to every female, but it still felt a bit odd. We had meeting kind of thing every Monday morning, the nurses warned us not to engage in any sexual activities. I couldn’t help but suspect the hippie guy and the Asian emo girl because she appeared happy whenever he made excessive skin contact. There was also a Eurasian boy who would consistently climb over a wall to escape at night and return before morning meds time. He asked if I want anything from outside so I said I want m3th, jokingly. He escaped few times in front of my face, climbed the wall, but never brought mëth in, I found it strange that it seemed so easy to do within a mental ward. However, a nurse informed me that he had been arrested and was no longer in the hospital but in a police station. I’m not sure about the accuracy of this information.

I thought I could finish this series in 3 but no I can’t, I feel I am privileged.

I heard through the grapevine that a friend of a friend of a friend of mine had also been in a mental hospital, albeit a different unit and hospital. Her experience was vastly different. Unfortunately, I can’t compare with other psych wards since I was admitted to the same unit and hospital for the second time. FYI, I’m not planning to go back for another experience. I’m clean now, and I have been for several years.

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Looking back, I spent a few days crying and going back to sleep unless they woke me up for:

1. The Medicare person checking if I wanted to use my Medicare for this stay-cation. I was super high on the meds they gave me during that conversation, but I vaguely remember her asking if I wanted to use my mental health plan while staying in the Manning Unit. I replied with a firm “no” and pleaded to end the show and send me home immediately.
2. Medication time: They started oral administration of Olanzapine around this time. Before giving me the medicine, they explained what it is, how it works, and what it does. I didn’t care much and took it anyway, but I’m guessing it was Olanzapine because they prescribed it to me and encouraged me to continue it after discharge.
3. Meal times, activity times

When I finally sobered up, though I still thought it was part of the show, I noticed the people there were incredibly amusing to stay with. Unfortunately, I forgot all their names, and there’s no way to keep in contact since exchanging contact details was forbidden – maybe to prevent relapsing together outside the hospital. Manning Unit consists of patients of all genders, aged between 25-50, mostly going through psychosis episodes(whether it’s drug related or not), thinking they are gods or something similar, much like how I believed I was the main character of a very famous show. Their way of thinking is different, unique, and refreshing. I wish I could hang out with them from waking up until falling asleep forever. We only had an hour of phone time at 4 pm, but no one really craved that time of day. We only used the phone to order Ubers, and Uber drivers always had a tough time finding Manning Unit because it’s so hidden. Boring activities like composing music or face painting made my stomach hurt from laughing too much. I really enjoyed my time there and forgot about meth after a few days of sleep and crying tantrums: “finish the show and send me home already.” Hospital food couldn’t be tastier than that. I always asked for more from the kitchen lady, sometimes checking if other cellmates were being anorexic. There were three meal times, two tea and snacks. I don’t know how—providing individual ward, entertainment, infrastructures, food, snacks, tea, coffee(but decaf only), and many more, but I can only appreciate the Australian government for providing all of this for free.

Time flew; two weeks really went by in a flash. I had interviews, counseling sessions with a few psychologists and psychiatrists, again, all for free. In the end, we came to the conclusion that I see countless meaningless events and incidents in day-to-day life, trying to connect dots and forming strong false beliefs – all drug-induced. A normal brain wouldn’t do that. I also had to see a substance use counselor. He was drinking coke, and I accused him of not being able to quit sugar. I was recommended to visit him at St. Vincent Hospital, but I never went.

All my cellmates got released one by one, and finally, my turn came. I was released too, with a lifetime subscription of Olanzapine. But seriously, it’s all free and, therefore, brainless. Think about it. Do you believe that a drug addict, especially an ice addict, can overcome their addiction with antipsychotic meds like Olanzapine? What antipsychotic meds do to your brain is stop you from thinking. They’re supposed to halt overthinking, but in reality, they just cut everything off, shut you down, and send you to bed.

I couldn’t get back to normal life after I was discharged, because I slept for 20 hours a day on Olanzapine. The remaining 4 hours were spent eating lollies and other junk food. I struggled to grasp things with my hands and had wobbly legs; my body, in general, felt powerless. My eyes became blurry both with and without contact lenses due to high glucose levels on Olanzapine. Most importantly, I started producing breast milk. My breasts had been tender since my admission to the psych ward, and I didn’t pay much attention. It became unbearable at one point, so I tried massaging, and something came out from my nipple. At first, I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t just a drop or a leak; it was a fully loaded super soaker. I could shoot a glass Coke bottle and knock it down if I aimed correctly. I squeezed all night long, and it never stopped dripping. However, I no longer thought I was the main character of a famous show or that I was being watched all the time. And… it wasn’t that fun. I relapsed.

Regretfully, but not so much (because now I have some topics to write about), I spent a total of four weeks of my life in a mental hospital, whether I was admitted voluntarily or involuntarily. I’m sharing some memories to warn and convey the message that “drugs are bad mmkay” and “pharmaceutical drugs are as bad as street drugs mmkay,” so don’t do drugs; I tried it for you.

In short, I smoked meth, also known as Methamphetamine, Ice, Shabu, or whatever you call it – the infamous drug associated with dental issues and skin scratching leading to scabs all over your face and body. One day, I found myself with a hammer in one hand, speaking on the phone, threatening to break my skull and end my life. Someone called the police, and I got arrested for… self-harm. I smoked meth when I woke up and took Ativan, Xanax, and Seroquel to sleep, creating a somewhat routine life. However, sometimes I didn’t sleep at all for 7 to 10 days, accumulating a sleep debt that I still owe, having slept 1 or 2 days straight at times.

The primary reason I turned to meth was that it suppressed my hunger. Typically, I spent $25-$50 a day on groceries and eating out, so it seemed like a reasonable deal. The added bonus was the superpower of focus that I, being super lacking in that department, found quite appealing. However, there were times when it became too much. I ended up breaking some computers, playing with root files, and experiencing typical psychosis, convinced I was being hacked while thinking of an imaginary survival show broadcasted to the world, with me as the main character – an unbelievably important person.

When the police (unnecessarily so many of them) broke into my unit, they bombarded me with questions about weapons and recent drug use. They also informed me that everything was being recorded with the cameras attached to their chests. Up until that moment, I believed it was all part of the survival show, and I was finally out of that stupid (or well-made) broadcast. I thought I was losing the game, but it was okay because I was so over it. My face was covered in tears and a runny nose, and I sincerely hoped the police wouldn’t watch that footage for training purposes. Please, NSW police?

As it turned out, they identified me as a substance user, possibly overdosed on downers, so I was sent to a psychiatric hospital instead of a jail cell.

On the first night, I vividly remember being unable to sleep, despite taking a cocktail of downers from home. The Manning Unit in Concord Hospital is relatively free; you get an individual room and can come out to the lounge area if you can’t sleep. So, I roamed around until a nurse offered me help. I didn’t inquire about what she gave me; I was still high from whatever I had taken earlier. I passed out on the lounge couch until breakfast time the next day, with everyone in the lounge seeing me sleeping while they were eating.

Working in a public hospital, I thought I knew what to expect when it came to patient meals. However, my experience at the Manning Unit in Concord Hospital brought a unique twist to the usual routine – it felt more like school lunchtime.

The process was structured; we lined up as a kitchen lady served us. Social workers and nurses observed and noted our eating habits, ensuring we were maintaining a healthy balance or being anorexic. We then sat with different groups of people during meals. Some groups engaged in lively conversation, while others preferred silence. There was no consistency in seating arrangements, which, surprisingly, I found comforting. This random allocation eliminated the pressure of deciding who to sit next to, a challenge I often faced during my teenage years when I never had close friends.

My admission occurred in the middle of the night, around 2 am. Upon waking, I noticed everyone was already engrossed in their meals, as if I didn’t exist. Some greeted me with a friendly “hi,” inquired about my night’s sleep, while others seemed indifferent. The confusion set in – was the supposed survival show not over yet? I went to my room and sought solace in sleep.

As I dozed off, a nurse or social worker followed me, posing the question if I wanted to eat. Frustrated, I expressed my desire to be left alone, urging them to conclude the imaginary show. Tears welled up as I grappled with the surreal nature of my surroundings. I said leave me alone, and finish the show already. I cried a lot. [Continue reading]