Down the rabit hole...
This part of the story grows increasingly convoluted...First confusion, the person in charge of service user's ward was talking at us as we came in.
Next thing, service user is getting upset and I'm feeling it's us causing it...
Next, in the quiet room there was one of those conversations where we get told how helpful it will be to accept x. And as husband pointed out later, why are they talking to us? Our confusion not helped by the scripted speech, which is full of ' they work with you' kind of statements, but no clear cut answer about what they do.
And finally, the weirdest one, about the urine test testing positive when service user was brought in. So, do we have a bag of drugs hidden in our house? Is that what's underneath the madness....
Does it explain everything? Except why service user is still going on about guilt and self recrimination, and has been judged to have ' no capacity'!
I need a sniffer dog!
To find the bag.
The bag I'm referring to is the explanation for most of this, it is the stash, the bag of amphetamine. Of course no one would expect their son to say, 'oh yes I was taking drugs again'. I didn't believe he took them because he hadn't had access to any. The last time would have been when Princess K' was here and that was months ago. Basically if he had some, I don't believe that he has the self control to take just a bit at the time. Nevertheless, it was an explanation that gave me hope.
I felt that drugs as a cause of his regressive denial (as Freud so politely put it) actually...I had never thought what regressive denial could mean. Now I know, I wish I didn't. I'd believed that drugs was a good explanation. But really, things are never so simple. Drug taking and abuse, as in taking stuff that may kill you, is a Russian Roulette kind of suicide attempt. Or at least, the way service user describes it; making his heart beat so fast that the world was going black.
As he describes it it felt like a pact; life was bearable when he could play at ending it. The pact: he handed the drug the power of life or death and in return, in return what did he get? In truth what he got was a 'Section 2' 28 days...I don't think he had thought it through, which is so sad so sad, but part of the process..
Well, he isn't here, so I can go searching the house. On Tuesday my daughter and I spent a good few hours trying to think where we would hide something we don't even know what! And we didn't do a very good job, because we didn't find anything.
Sitting in his bedroom, going through the pockets of his clothes. The feeling of bereavement without a death, the echoing nightmare of destruction, and the fear. The pity for the person underneath this whirlpool of hyper-gravitational void.
I have not had time yet, to really feel the impact of all this. I know my first intimation that things were wrong, was Josh's reaction to the death of someone he knew, and wasn't close to...except in age and ethos. That was about three years ago now...
Anyway, as my last assignment was handed in on Tuesday, I finally have sometime to reflect and to try to restore order to our poor battered and smashed up home. We boil water in a saucepan at the moment - and actually, overall that may be more efficient! We probably boil less water each time. I have older teapots I can use...then there are the holes in the walls, plaster board needs replacing. and there is the window. I spent most of yesterday cleaning the hall and kitchen, putting things back in order, thinking how much I'd love a new kitchen - that is an unusual thought for me but you wouldn't know that - but then, as husband said, we don't know what he will be like when he comes back, is it worth getting new things?
I said, I think if it looks new and lovely he will feel less inclined to smash...but I don't think I've convinced myself of that. I just want to have our home back. Restoring order feels healing. It was something I'd find myself doing even as he was destroying...I'd be weeping, sweeping smashed glass into the bin. Making myself keep moving, keep talking, asking him to stop.
Some part of me cannot comprehend how hard this part of our lives has been. Now it is like being in a house and seeing smoke coming under the door. I really don't want to open the door.
I felt that drugs as a cause of his regressive denial (as Freud so politely put it) actually...I had never thought what regressive denial could mean. Now I know, I wish I didn't. I'd believed that drugs was a good explanation. But really, things are never so simple. Drug taking and abuse, as in taking stuff that may kill you, is a Russian Roulette kind of suicide attempt. Or at least, the way service user describes it; making his heart beat so fast that the world was going black.
As he describes it it felt like a pact; life was bearable when he could play at ending it. The pact: he handed the drug the power of life or death and in return, in return what did he get? In truth what he got was a 'Section 2' 28 days...I don't think he had thought it through, which is so sad so sad, but part of the process..
Well, he isn't here, so I can go searching the house. On Tuesday my daughter and I spent a good few hours trying to think where we would hide something we don't even know what! And we didn't do a very good job, because we didn't find anything.
Sitting in his bedroom, going through the pockets of his clothes. The feeling of bereavement without a death, the echoing nightmare of destruction, and the fear. The pity for the person underneath this whirlpool of hyper-gravitational void.
I have not had time yet, to really feel the impact of all this. I know my first intimation that things were wrong, was Josh's reaction to the death of someone he knew, and wasn't close to...except in age and ethos. That was about three years ago now...
Anyway, as my last assignment was handed in on Tuesday, I finally have sometime to reflect and to try to restore order to our poor battered and smashed up home. We boil water in a saucepan at the moment - and actually, overall that may be more efficient! We probably boil less water each time. I have older teapots I can use...then there are the holes in the walls, plaster board needs replacing. and there is the window. I spent most of yesterday cleaning the hall and kitchen, putting things back in order, thinking how much I'd love a new kitchen - that is an unusual thought for me but you wouldn't know that - but then, as husband said, we don't know what he will be like when he comes back, is it worth getting new things?
I said, I think if it looks new and lovely he will feel less inclined to smash...but I don't think I've convinced myself of that. I just want to have our home back. Restoring order feels healing. It was something I'd find myself doing even as he was destroying...I'd be weeping, sweeping smashed glass into the bin. Making myself keep moving, keep talking, asking him to stop.
Some part of me cannot comprehend how hard this part of our lives has been. Now it is like being in a house and seeing smoke coming under the door. I really don't want to open the door.
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