Chapter 3: One Flew Over the Kookaburra's Nest

Throughout my heroic struggle with depression, whenever I’ve had to face a new hurdle or challenge there’s always been a nagging thought at the back of my mind: “Why don’t you just kill yourself?”

It’s obviously not the greatest thing to be thinking, but it's something I’ve accepted as part of who I am and have grown used to. It usually gets dismissed in a second.
“Hmmmm... gas bill due next week. Might have to kill myself.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Okay.”

As I felt myself becoming more and more numb during the last couple of weeks, these thoughts became more and more pervasive, and not so easily dismissed.

(“These new drugs don’t seem to be helping... you should probably kill yourself.”)
I’m pretty sure that I was spending every waking second wishing I was dead.

So... around 11am last Tuesday, August 16, I went into the bathroom at work and burst into tears. I thought about getting the retractable knife from my desk and opening up a wrist or two. I threw some water on my face, took some deep breaths and went back to my desk. Next thing I knew, I was hunched on the floor with an agonising pain in my chest, like someone was standing on my breastbone.

I couldn't breathe. My boss called an ambulance, they rushed me to Emergency, I was wired up to the ECG, etc. They were very good, asking me all the right questions...

"Do you know where you are?"
"Hospital."
"Have you ever had these pains before?"
"Yes, last December."
"What was the diagnosis then?"
"Stress-related, not cardiac or anything."
"Well, that's good. Are you currently under stress?"
"Yes and no..."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I have no real reason to be too stressed at all, but lately I've had an overwhelming urge to, uh... to kill myself."
"I see. And do you have a plan to do this?"
"Several."
"Hmmm. I might get someone from our Mental Health department to come talk to you."

As it turns out, constantly fantasising about your own death is NOT a particularly healthy state to be in.

After chatting with one of the Mental Health team, it was suggested I spend some time under observation "in hospital". I don't recall the term "psychiatric ward" ever being mentioned... and that's probably a good thing; I might not have agreed to it if it had. I just imagined I'd be spending a day or two in a hospital bed, playing with my fancy new phone and watching bad TV. Yeah, I was wrong.

After a few hours in Emergency, I was walked up to "the ward". Entry was through an 'airlock'-system of sliding doors, where one door had to be completely closed before the next one would open. The nurse accompanying me said it was to "stop escapees". I'm still not sure if she was joking or not.

The first person I met there was Victor, who would be my nurse for the day. And here is where I will change tense, just because I can.

Victor is Chinese. Victor’s English is really hard to understand. I hate myself for not being able to understand him... I’m sure that a better person than me would have no trouble at all.

Victor tells me to empty my pockets and hand over my wallet and phone... mobile phones are not allowed on the ward. He can’t tell me why, exactly. Nurse Maureen joins us, and explains that it’s a “privacy” issue, what with phone cameras and the Facebooks on the internets and everything. Fair enough.

Victor then takes me on a tour of the facilities; past the isolation room and the nurses’ station, through the “day room” – complete with dishevelled-looking inpatients asleep on couches – and out to the smokers’ courtyard.

“Do you smoke?” he asks.

“No.” I reply.

“Oh.” He seems disappointed.

By now, I’m beginning to think that this is not your everyday hospital ward. When a blonde Kim Clijsters lookalike floats past us in her dressing gown and slippers, flapping her arms and saying, “Oooooh, it’s someone from the other side!” my suspicions are confirmed.