I’m being discharged to an intensive outpatient programme. It’s going to happen tomorrow morning, and on Friday I’ll be flying to London with my partner to see All Time Low, the band who saved our lives. My life is re-starting. And I’m not ready. I’m fucking not ready. My psychiatrists said things would be even worse if they discharged me on Thursday literally throwing me on the plane, and I know they’re right. After all, they think I’m ready for discharge. They even agreed to the London trip, even if I’m putting myself at risk (mania, to name but one), because they know how important it is to me. I can’t go and spoil it all because of my anxiety.
I need an anxiety management plan and I need it tomorrow. I’m not going to leave the hospital without it. I know the anxiety disorder is just a secondary diagnosis, but to me it is destructive and disruptive just like Bipolar and I need that to be acknowledged by doctors.
But I trust them. It was them who saved me last week.
Now that I’m being discharged, when I look around I can feel waves of gratitude. This bare hospital room saw me at my worst, and now silently watches me flourish like the flowers in my garden, finally free from the chains of this terrible depressive episode.
I am so grateful for this admission. I forever will be.
[Inpatient, day 8]