Update 2015 November 28

I typed out a long post explaining in detail everything that happened between last and this updates, but then I pressed a wrong button and it all got deleted. And I’m lazy, so I’m not going to type it all out again.

The long and short of it is, I am in inpatient in the Institute of Mental Health in Singapore (for Torontonians, the Singapore equivalent of CAMH). I have insurance that covers everything so I’m in a private ward, which is much nicer than the ward I was in when I was in Toronto. Which is nice, because I’m likely to be here for at least a month while my meds get a complete overhaul.
In the process I’m likely to get psychotic again for a while, which I’m not really looking forwards to because it’s not fun. But I guess it’s necessary, and I kind of wanted it, since other things weren’t working. I respond VERY fast to medication, in terms of side effects, therapeutic effects, and crap-I’m-off-it-time-to-get-psychotic effects.
I do like my new doctor though, and he knows what he’s doing (I think). And I’m on home ground (at least administratively). And most of my family is here. And I have a few friends here. So I’m in safe hands. Even if I do miss my friends in Toronto.

The technology here, even in the private sector, is more advanced than the hospital I was in during my time in Toronto. Everything is recorded electronically. My wristband has a QR code that the nurses scan when they give me my medications. In Toronto, everything was still on paper. The comparison is weird, because Canada is supposed to be part of the Global North and Singapore the Global South.

I get to use my phone here, too. And wear my own clothes. And use technology with long wires. Which is strange, because electonics were banned from my ward in Toronto. But it’s handy I guess, because at least I can keep my friends updated. And maybe even my webcomic (though I don’t have a proper scanner, or a photoeditor on my phone).

We’ll see how the next few weeks unfolds. Salutations

Update 2015 November 20

It’s been kind of a long 2 weeks. Actually, a long 2 months. Well, a long 2 years. Can’t believe it’s only been 2 years since all this.

These few weeks have been extremely hard on my family, particularly my mother as she has to deal with both me and my older sibling’s problems, as well as keep in mind my grandparents’ failing health back in Singapore. It’s been hard on my older sibling too, especially with that time she spent the weekend looking for me instead of studying for her two tests the next day, and with living far from campus.

The Creatures are still in my head. I’ve called them The Wolves before (in my tags on this blog), I’ve called them Malcolms (Macs for short), I’ve called them Otherworldly Beings that Take Up my Headspace. I’ve called them Critters, to make them seem less powerful.
I still am not 100% sure about What is Reality. I’m still not sure that what I call The Grand Illusion (after a psychological term) is not true.
But I will cling to reality, and I will fight The Grand Illusion, and I will fight the Malcolms. Until they take up less and less space in my head. Perhaps one day they will disappear altogether.

I will fight.

The picture is two pieces of chocolate that yesterday’s advisor at the International Students Centre at my university gave me. I went there to figure out insurance coverage and immigration things. The person I spoke to yesterday, helped me out the first time as well. She reminded me that God loves me, very much, whatever else happens. The people around me constantly remind me of this, of their care, of God’s care.

I haven’t made it this far alone, and (with the part of me that still believes in God, that hasn’t given in to The Grand Illusion) I know that even as I go back to Singapore, God will carry me further, and He will keep me safe. And God and His people and my family and I, we will fight.
Most of the time, that’s not what goes on in my head, though. I don’t fight because it’s what God wants. I fight because that’s what I have to do. I don’t get a choice about it. But I do get a choice about how I fight, and I’m going to give this illness a run for its money.

Throwback to high school

It’s back, this old heaviness I know so well. But I got through it before. I’ll get through it again. As many times as it comes back, I’ll beat it. God and my family and friends and I, we’ll beat it.

I just want to be okay

I just want to be able to say “I’m doing good” without feeling like a liar. I want to be able to stop my mind from fogging with fear and stop the world from scrambling into a constructed illusion created by puppeteers.
People tell me that normality doesn’t exist, that nobody is normal, anyhow. But I don’t need to be normal. I just need to be okay.
I just need to know that the two pink pills I swallow every day are really For My Good. That you are truly Not Monitoring Me. Not reading my thoughts. I just need to know that I Am Safe. Why is it so hard?
I just want to be able to sit on the red seat in the red bus of the bright red TTC, to know that the red emergency pole is not reaching into my brain and rearranging my thoughts. I want to be sure that it is safe to wear red striped socks and stand on red tiled floors. I want to have ideas of reality, not of reference.
I just want to stay clear of the ER and the inpatient beds. And heck, if I could, the outpatient waiting rooms. The pills, altogether. The constant taking check of Today Was Fine, maybe a six out of ten. Or an eight. Or a four. The side effects, the twelve-hour sleeps. I want the health I took for granted. I want my old Normal back.
I don’t want to be stuck in self-pity or worthlessness. I just am so frustrated at myself, so angry at my mind for failing me in the simplest of things like sitting in a room listening to someone talk.
I just want to be able to look at the people who care about me without thinking of the crap I put them through or whether they are conspiring against me. I want to not be That One Person who lets the team down just because she can’t pull herself together. Why is it so hard? I want to not have to say to my professor or my TA or even my friends the dreaded words “I’m sorry I was ill”, because in my heart it feels like a lie too. Because I don’t think I’m ill; I just think: I could try harder.
But when the four walls around me seem like they would dissolve away at the touch of a finger and I am engulfed in the fear of the radiation that emanates from all red things, I only know to put pen to paper and tell myself, This is real. I am safe. Breathe in, lungs. Breathe out. Breathe in. Out. In. To the flow of ink on paper. I am real and safe.
And I don’t know why I am here or why you are where you are. I don’t know what you just need or what you just want to be able to do. I don’t know what simple things your brain or your body fails you on. But I know that the word “healing” implies wounds suffered; the word “restoration” speaks of devastation come before.
I know that “hope” can become a meaningless collapsing star in the distance, but if you breathe with me and peer into the skies, perhaps we can see our reflections, and in the moon reflected the light of the sun, the hope of dawn when we will be okay.