The New Business Model in Psychiatry

I checked myself yet again at the hospital. It became my full time job really.

Shame on me, I ain’t strong enough to survive outside more than a few weeks. But is it really my fault?

Not more than 24 hours later, yes you know it, I checked myself out. I wasn’t scared of the environment this time. I liked the room. I even met a couple of people with whom I could have a decent conversation – shout out to K, L, N and N!

My problem was the medical body. My sessions with them were more of open ended questions like in qualitative research. I felt time had no essence to them. Like progress cannot be measured daily.

When I went to London, and I am not being payed to say this – if you only knew how expensive it actually is to get treated there out of pocket – every single word I said was taken seriously. Every little side effect was looked at. I was seen as a person; a real person and not a spoiled brat complaining for no reason.

Secondly, the doctors would not dwell endlessly on what to do. They took calculated risks. Because if they agreed to the status quo then nothing would happen.

I was always reassured and never ever did anyone tell me this drug or this method works for 20% of the patients. I was given hope – in abundance and also had the opportunity to chat with other patients who are now truly healed.

While I was completely fitting the box of patients in the clinic, my individual voice and needs were immediately heard.

That is why I felt I was wasting time at the hospital and that is why I left 24 hours later instead of staying for a whole 10 days.

My business teachers at university always said a good product or service starts by answering a customer pain.

Very well, mental illness is filled with customer pain; be it the patient herself or her family members.

I have been treated and admitted to hospitals both in Paris and Cairo. Although the settings could be strikingly different; there are major similarities.

Patients have little control over the course of their treatment; unless they happen to well read – and still that could be interpreted as a personality disorder.

Here, business people, here is a business model for you to follow. Instead of keeping the one patient coming back for 10 years, you can have thousands of them and most likely very happy ones too. Am no mathematician but get your excel sheets out and do the works. It doesn’t need a genius to tell you where the money is; and coincidentally health too…

TBC

I am committed

I am committed to coming back to this very hospital

I am committed to receive every form of therapy there is under the sun

I am committed to doing whatever it takes to raise our children, see them graduate and organize their weddings

I am committed to loving and honoring my immediate and extended family in every possible way

Meanwhile I am finding my happy middle

It is a mirage

But I need to keep on looking

I will check out tonight if it is the last thing I do

I will come daily as an outpatient

I am committed to heal

I am committed to survive

You must know

Know that I love you since before I was born

Know that I loved you since before you were born

Know that you are my every reason for being

Know that I want to leave to set you free

I try and I fail and I try again and I fail and fall harder

Maybe this time it will work

In the world of rapid cycling

Hello everyone. Bla bla bla yes I haven’t written for a while, miss you, etc.

You know it is not me who is inconsiderate or rude: am rapid cycling.

Say what? Say one day am high as a kite (a small kite since am bipolar 2), and the next am digging a tunnel to the the after life (does that even make any sense?)

You get the picture. Am a yo-yo, I am a roller coaster, a bullet train with bad breaks.

I enjoy my ups and do accomplish a lot; especially if you count shopping as an accomplishment. I spend hours without eating (big high five since I tend to feed like a newborn every 2 hours). I even live on 5 hours of sleep and I am Eeyore on any other day.

Woke up at 6 am today (weekend here on my side of the world) and hoped into my trainers and on to the kettle and to my smokes.

Am sociable, am pretty, am smart and talkative. I love it.

I wrote this down to me Nour. Yes to me, for in a few hours I will feel like dirt is better than me. I will feel empty and useless and I will become a burden. I will get back to staring at the ceiling and doing nothing but dealing with suicidal ideation.

Today however I will kiss my kids, a lot and lots more. I will go for a long walk like the book says. I will have lunch with my beautiful loving family and I will dress to impress. I will put on my make up and my new earrings. I will take a selfie or two and hashtag them to mentalhealthawareness.

Meanwhile my rapid cycling friend; I freakin feel you. You are my hero.

Remember, for every down there is an up coming and heck yes we shall ride the wave and rise to the moon.

Bless

TBC

If I were

If I were at the hospital

I would wear my pyjamas all day

I would say good morning to everyone

I would wake up on time

I would have breakfast at the communal table

I would go for a smoke when the nurses say so

I would wear a nicotine patch To get me through the day, and I would be allergic to it

I would use the communal shower and dry up with a bed sheet; I would find hair everywhere and stay with my slippers on

I would wait for the doctor to pass by and say the daily bla-bla-bla;

I would play Sudoku- pen and paper sir not online

I would stare at my family’s portrait hung on the window and imagine them touching my face

I would move my chair around to be in the sun, seeking emotions and failing to find none

I would be disconnected; off the grid and not feel guilty about it

I would pretend it is doing me good to be here

I would take my blood pressure and temperature every day

I would talk to others about side effects of this or that

I would fancy getting better

I would know it is good for me, it has to be; it better be

I would feel guilty about the kids, my husband, my father; my kids, my husband, my husband, my husband, my father, my father, my father, my father….but my kids…

I would wait for 2pm when visits start, no no tears this time

I would wait for 7pm when I can call the kids and ask them to sing me a song, sometimes they would

I would give them imaginary baths and diners

I would blow imaginary kisses and I would make belief that I am tucking them to bed

I would kiss my husband good night and say a silent prayer, god let tomorrow be normal – one more day

I would beg for the drugs to black me out at 8pm

Dinner would be sprouts and more sprouts. Some borrowed olive oil here and some salt

The other day I took the kids bowling and felt so self accomplished just as if I landed on the freakin moon

I am sitting by the louvre sipping my Bloody Mary with tears

People are standing up here and there trying to get a perfect picture

They bend and jump into strange angles to look like the pyramid is on the palm of their hand

It is all make belief, looking for the perfect moment

A tour guide has an umbrella up for everyone to follow her

Where else would they go I wonder? Isn’t this the perfect moment? To follow someone without thinking? Tick this box and that one. Been there, done that…

We talk and talk and talk and talk

We shut up and up and up and up

We should know better

I am writing compulsively, but you don’t have to read me

It is building up

I know myself, I wish I didn’t

Solve it; for you god brought me here in the first place

No shame; maybe some

No regrets; just a few

Oblivion where are you?

TBC

The day before my hospitalization

As I smoke the day’s first cigarette, I wonder…

It has been decided yesterday that I will be hospitalized tomorrow.

Dread is all what comes to mind. A new place it is, specialized in mood disorders.

The ward I will be occupying will have 6 patients. Six individual rooms isolated from the outside of the hospital; from the outside world.

I worry about small details; will the room be warm enough? Will the charger reach my bed? Will they let me out to smoke?

I also worry about visitation rights. It is no prison I know, but there will be strict rules to follow.

How long will this stay be? When will I graduate to the open ward, where I will have access to the courtyard and the cafeteria? Will I get permissions to go out? When will I see my children again?

Soon enough all these mundane questions will be answered, and other ones will surface.

I will write as much as I can….

TBC

I don’t want to hurt myself

I don’t want to hurt myself. I do not want to end up in an emergency room.

My only weapon is my writing.

I have to fight myself as much as I have to fight the system. What on earth am I supposed to do not to end up in an emergency room? How can I control my impulses?

Could my pain make my heart explode? Is this physically possible? Will I let my children see me this way? What does the system offer to those in my position? Waiting and some more…

I wish I could feel numb like the last 48 hours. Today it hurts like an open wound. Will I keep on bleeding endlessly? will I hold this scream till the end of time? Will my tears ever dry? What can I do to protect my children from me? Leave? Go where? Die? They will be motherless just like me.

I have given all my strength in this fight. There is nothing left in me, not even pride. All what I ask is for is that it be quick. This separation that is tearing me apart, could it happen in the blink of an eye?

I am rambling, scared like a lost child in a forest. How can I be a mother when I am like that? God, if you exist help me… and if you don’t, then let me be…

Help me if you can

I packed my pyjamas, I packed my socks and leggings. I packed my sweethearts, tooth brush and lenses case.

I packed my nail polish, I packed my cotton buds. I packed my headphones and I packed my bathrobe.

I couldn’t pack my children, I just packed their picture. I packed a picture with both smiling, angelic as they are. I couldn’t pack their smell, though I packed their perfume.

I packed blue-tag to hang their picture on the wall. I just pray to god to hold strong till Tuesday. I have to wait Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. How can I bring myself to wait for not seeing them?

How can I pack my husband’s hug? How can I pack the smile of my father? How can I pack humanity in a bag?

Anyone who has gone through this please help me. I can’t stay home, the hospital won’t take me for a few days. I am being torn up alive…. Help me

When you are denied suicide

As the droplets of rain fall onto my swollen feet, I wonder about the meaning of existence…

What does existence mean I ask in t his suffering? I gained 5 kilos in 2 days. That is a reflection of the anger and irritation inside of me.

When the grey sky looks down upon me, I wish I did not make promises of any kind to anyone.

Existence is so painful. That is the phrase that keeps repeating itself in my mind. With my swollen feet, I walk with shame around the house.

I want to shut the curtains and cover the mirrors. Yet, I can still see myself with my eyes closed, I suffer in silence.

If I am to scream, I would be voiceless. I am drained. I am a mass of depression roaming the house with clothes that ache from holding on to my ever growing body. I wonder how they manage to do it!

My body, my mind, my bipolarity are insanity. Insanity is a state of mind where nothing is logical or meaningful anymore.

A promise kept at the dark alley of a mental hospital to stay alive is the only thing to which I am holding. I do not even think I am helpable (new word)

I feel like red ridding hood, in a dark ugly forest with someone showing me the way to avoid being hurt by the wolf. I am now alone with my fears with no medical help to avoid this wolf of suicide and depression. Maybe the sounds of the ambulances I rode were not so bad. Maybe the million questions asked by the paramedics before being reanimated are not too difficult to answer. Maybe just the fact of voiding myself and putting the responsibility of being alive on someone else’s skills is not that stupid after all.

Just a vow to stay alive. My only wish is for this vow to be kept. No, I am lying, my only wish is that something not of my doing happens to me to alleviate this pain by ending the source of it: my mind. Maybe falling into a coma would be achieving both goals: staying alive and shutting off my mind if I am lucky.

The only hope is that when I end, all this suffering will end with me. Otherwise, it will be the biggest farce humanity has ever faced.

Unfortunately TBC

4 reasons Why you should avoid going to CAC 6 in France

Yes I know I am sick as a dog, but if you read me out, you will understandably know why I hate this institution.

1- You might be refused help: I went with my own packed bag to the CAC* of the 6th arrondissement in Paris (emergency psychiatric center). I was seeking help, and mostly protection. I was refused by a psychiatric nurse CATHERINE – she told me to rely on my inner resources (smiley face) while I have suicidal thoughts )gesture with third finger and black dark pitch black ideas.

2- Mistreatment, under-treatment or non-treatment could be a nuisance: Next day, it started. I had my headphones on most all of the time to avoid any contact with the staff. I think it was the smartest thing I did. Next day, unfortunately there was still again no place at the private clinic to which I would be transferred to, so confrontation was a little less possible.

3- Spare yourself from unnecessary anger: Small things, like you cannot get access to your phone at 8:55 but at 9:00. That I have no visitation rights except for one hour. Small things like forcing you to take an ambulance to the other clinic while they have absolutely no right to do so. Small things that I could go home and have a proper shower (wearing same socks for two nights). Small things, like going home to pack my bags and kiss my children goodbye.

4- Food sucks: Just kidding, but unfortunately true!

Admission to CAC meant that I used my mind – a ruse – I managed to get admitted by waiting for the next shift of nurses to arrive, angels like FABIEN, MARTINE and BENJAMIN. They let me in, gave me something to sleep. I felt sad to be away again, but nothing weird – just the fact that I was not able to leave my husband and be away from home.

For a full review click here

*CAC: They are part of the 5 psychiatric institutions in Paris. They provide a hotline and psychiatric consultations. They welcome, treat, or offer short time hospitalization, but do not take charge of hospitalization without consent….Ils font partie de l’offre de soins des 5 établissements psychiatriques de Paris. Ils assurent une permanence téléphonique et des consultations psychiatriques. Ils accueillent, soignent, orientent ou hospitalisent pour une durée brève, mais ne prennent pas en charge les hospitalisations sans consentement.

The story of my insanity

Today I decided to share with you how it all started. I do not know why I feel the need to tell you this very personal story. I got a tattoo recently saying “Busco Me”, which is a Spanish title to a song that I absolutely love.

The song is totally bipolar, though my tattoo does not make sense in Spanish grammatically speaking, I chose the name of the song: I am searching for myself. I have been trying to avoid this subject while doing nothing else but soul searching for the last ten if not twenty years.

I have to talk to you about psychology to get to my the essence if my bipolarity, my insanity, my story. I chose to be a psychologist after the death of my mother at the age of 16. It was the only logical thing to do. Well, probably there were other logical things to do at the time. But for me to it was a calling.

My mother had psychiatric problems, if not at least psychological ones. She was a heavy drinker – an alcoholic. I was always ashamed of talking about this. It was my secret, our secret. I discovered recently that it is not the case. I cannot be hiding behind a thick curtain hoping to see the light. This was the reason I left psychology behind 10 years ago. I decided that the past is useless, the future is unknown and the now is what only matters.

Yes, this is a good mantra, yes it is indeed. But do not forget that the past that you have lived, makes the now you live. I had tried long and hard to escape rom this catch 22. Why I kept asking myself, why do I give so much importance to my childhood since my mother died 21 years ago? Please I am 37. I have a husband, 2 kids, travelled and lived in over 7 countries. I speak 4 languages, I have more diplomas than I will ever use.

I can pack and unpack a house in 24 hours almost on my own. I know how to change diapers, while having a glass of wine, talking on the phone, and making sure the food am cooking does not get burned. I help my husband make difficult decisions. I am a source of happiness for many people around me. I always encourage, always ask people to believe in themselves and that they are born for a reason, which might not be clear now, but surely will be. I am your typical cuddly dog, faithful, yet strong, playful yet with clear boundaries.

You get my point. I am polyvalente. I can do many things, and do them well. My husband says I must be German, though my only relationship with it is a goof friend of mine born on the same day as me. Why am I looking for the past? Why is it haunting me?

I will not tell you all at once, it will be too long. I want to keep you interested. It might turn out to a book this soul searching experiment. It might also be thrown to trash, but it wont be Eat, Love and Pray or whatever it was called. Sorry, not my type. Who cares anyways? The pleasure is in the journey not the destination. Do we need to argue this too?

TBC

Helpful resources in France:

Enfants -Adultes D’alcooliques: Dedicated to the topic. But it also has a few good specific articles in french about how to deal with certain situations.

Al-Anon/ Alateen France: Since the 50’s in the USA and early 60’s in France, this association helps families and friends of alcoholics. Good tip they have sessions in English and Spanish for families of alcoholics.

Information elsewhere:

Adult Children of Alcoholics: An association that is in the US helping the same population through different resources.

Children of Alcoholics: Very interesting resource speaking about how this specific population is at risk of addiction and offers pathways for prevention and treatment. They even have rehabilitation centers! Of course, you guesses well. This is indeed in the United States.

Feel free to add resources that you personally found useful yourself in the comment section….

New Year’s Eve at the clinic

I thought it would be with my best friends in Cairo like every year. My husband and I would be preparing the night a couple of days earlier. I would order the famous eat-till-you-die sushi platter, a grand cheese platter and a drink-if-you-can bar.

We would party till dawn and dance to songs that we love, songs that are in, songs that are so cliché that no one hears anymore. Laughter still rings in my ears from those nights. We were usually three or four couples maximum.

This year, I had no permission to spend the night out. Who cares? I am in Paris and have about 2 or 3 friends. It wouldn’t have been the same even if I could have gone out.

But this is not the point. I looked at myself in pity.. I need permission to be with my own family even if I were to spend the night in bed and sleep at 10 PM.

The lesson is, time passes and nothing can stop it. Today my eldest turns 9. I would not miss this for the world. So yes, I have a perm to go and see her. Yet, how many important events would come and go while I am locked in here? I hope not many. I am running out of patience…

TBC