Germany Burning Out 6 September 2024 Firstly, thank you guys for helping me call an ambulance a couple of weeks ago when things became truly unbearable. Now, having been discharged from the hospital, I feel the urge to jot down a few notes before my emotions decayed. I write these lines in the hope that someone might find my experience useful and avoid finding themselves in a similar situation someday. For the reader's convenience, this note is divided into several parts, some of which are necessary to understand the context. I won't delve too deeply into details, as I'm not writing memoirs just yet; I'll try to balance the factual and emotional content. However, this will mostly be a stream of consciousness, since I lack the energy for any more sober material after the events of the past few weeks. Part 1: War Nowadays I am twenty-four years old, originally from the small town of Ozyory near Moscow. Two years ago, I fled my home due to police persecution over my anti-war stance. You see, I simply do not like it when one person kills another. Because by killing, a person primarily kills the humanity within themselves. My philosophy holds that the highest virtue a person can achieve is the reduction of suffering. Make people's lives less unbearable; first your own, then others. Clearly, my views were entirely incompatible with those of the police. The criminal investigation department hauled my dear mother in for questioning, which caused me considerable distress. I had grown somewhat accustomed to such treatment, but when it happens to your loved ones, it feels exponentially worse. I suppose it's because of the sense of helplessness and not knowing how to protect someone close to you. During my mother's interrogation, the officers issued some vague summons for my own questioning. A completely insignificant piece of paper, with even the article number of the Criminal Procedure Code seemingly pulled out of thin air. Perhaps it was just a random form lying around on the major's desk. But so be it. In their conversation, the police also let slip that I was listed as wanted: this information was far more valuable than the unclear summons they issued in my name. As a result, I went into hiding for six months in a small village, lost and forgotten somewhere amidst the forests of the Moscow region. I chopped wood, stoked the stove, and carved wooden horses. I built my own radio network of seven stations, hosted daily broadcasts, and even managed to set up a rudimentary telegraph system with myself as the only telegraph operator. In March 2023, the police resumed their search and involved the director of the college where I had studied. I learned about this from a former classmate and a staff member of the educational institution. It turned out that the director had leaked the phone numbers of my classmates, which the officers from the "E" center (the counter-extremism center; in other words, the police department responsible for political persecution of dissenters) used to clumsily call everyone, posing as new teachers and asking, "Where's Misha?" Eventually, the volunteers, whose identities I won't disclose for security reasons, decided that my situation was dire enough to warrant getting me out of Russia. I can't reveal the details of my evacuation for safety reasons (so that others persecuted for political reasons might use the same method, for instance). Perhaps, when the time comes, I'll share more in my memoirs. Two weeks after my relocation, I found a new job at a Cypriot IT company (highload) and moved my mother to Sakartvelo. The day before her evacuation, the police visited her again, this time threatening to plant drugs and open a case. They were looking for me: they searched the cellar, the garden, and even under the bed (!), but found no signs of my presence at home. They were furious. I then lived in Kutaisi for another six months, during which I received the news that Germany had carefully reviewed my case and the German Federal Foreign Office had approved a humanitarian visa for me under Paragraph 22 Satz 2 AufenthG. Understanding that staying in Sakartvelo was unsafe (as the country is occupied by Russia and the Russian side sometimes kidnaps political refugees), I decided to move on. On the bright side: in Sakartvelo, shortly after I arrived and was overwhelmed by the sadness that had overtaken me, I found a pen pal - I was actively learning French at the time and needed someone to practice with. We communicated through handwritten letters and emails. Eventually, we even started dating, and Charlotte came to visit me for a couple of weeks (we had a wonderful vacation together in the mountains of Svaneti). But, unfortunately, our paths diverged thereafter. The news of my official invitation to Germany came exactly two weeks after our romantic chapter concluded. There was something amusing about it: as if the world was telling me not to grieve over what had happened and to try to move on, to see what would come next. One chapter was over, why not write another? And so I decided to continue. Part 2: Wolfen All those arriving under Paragraph 22 Satz 2 AufenthG cannot choose their initial place of allocation independently - it is determined using the Königsteiner Schlüssel. I was allocated to the state of Saxony-Anhalt. After arriving in Germany, I received a letter in a yellow envelope from the district that had taken responsibility for me, which was Anhalt-Bitterfeld. I did not arrive at the most opportune time: January in Bitterfeld- Wolfen was very slushy and dreary. Nevertheless, I gathered all my strength and tried not to despair. Although, I confess, at times, the loneliness and overwhelming sadness made me want to howl and climb the walls. A couple of months later, I managed to complete the evacuation of my family from Russia: my brother was the last one, who for personal reasons did not want to leave. I did not judge him for his choice but was very worried. Through prolonged negotiations that lasted more than six months, I finally managed to find a compromise and carry out another rescue operation. I felt a tremendous sense of relief when I finally managed to get my brother out. At that moment, it felt like the completion of a very large project. And indeed, it was a very large project. I just hadn't fully realized it nor the importance of it. In any case, I continued to support my family financially for a couple more months, as long as I could. I felt responsible for what was happening to my family because, by actively participating in the political life of my country, I understood the potential consequences. I had mentally prepared myself in advance for both the possibility of imprisonment and for emigration. And that in this emigration, I would have to take my family members with me. Part 3: Wolfen-Nord With my family relocated, it was time to sort myself out. The temporary apartment provided by the state could be occupied for no more than three months, so I was hastily searching for a new one. Through negotiations with the local housing cooperative, I found an affordable apartment for 405 Euro Warmmiete in a slightly more remote area of Wolfen: Wolfen-Nord. I lived there, but I was accumulating mental issues due to social isolation. I tried to seek treatment, actively visited a psychotherapist, and also found a psychiatrist. I kept going. For some reason, I kept going. I was trying to manage. It seemed I was managing, albeit barely. I kept myself occupied. I tried to continue composing music and learned how to drive the russian VL82 train in a simulator. But in Wolfen-Nord, it was very grey and unbearably lonely. And I started drinking. A bottle or two of wine at a time. The workload increased significantly because the CTO and team lead left the company. And a couple of senior devopses as well. Two mid-level devopses in a DevOps team on a project with a load of approximately 1 million RPS, of course, a very intriguing setup. So, I began to drink much more than I had allowed myself before. And the dog of loneliness tore at my throat with the dull fangs of drunken melancholy. And there were debts, too. A lot of debts. Just when you think you've sorted out one, you get hit with an 800 Euro bill from the AOK, for example. And the sick leave ran out. And the vacation days. And I ran out. Part 4: Venez m'aider Just a few rotations of the Earth before day X, while walking to Kaufland for groceries, I came across a multi-storey building with a partially dismantled roof. I wrote a note about it in my weblog, which you can find and read. I stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at this piece of art. A house without a roof. Just imagine! And is it even a house when the roof is the blue sky? The sight and the accompanying thoughts made me exceptionally melancholic, and I successfully drowned that melancholy in drink once again. On day X, when I woke up and realized I could no longer work - not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't - I thought, I thought, "Uh-oh! We've just hit the end of the line." It was terrifying to admit to myself that I was burnt out. After all, I thought that fate wouldn't befall me - or at least not so soon. I took sick leave and tried to figure out what to do about all this. I came up with nothing. Of course, it wasn't the first time I had pondered such things. It would've been strange if anything sensible had come to mind in that state. Nothing did, alas. I drank. And then another. Meanwhile, unknown individuals were making demolition sounds from various parts of the building. I don't know why or for what reason - maybe renovations. I watched this from the window of my apartment as they took out the bathtub, the sink, the tiles, and all of that. And this sight made me even sadder than the house without a roof. I don't know why. The apartment was being scraped out piece by piece. After two hours, something in my head finally broke, and I went into a tilt. I no longer wanted to live at all. However, due to my commitment to my family, I couldn't allow myself the luxury of not living, and even now, that remains an unaffordable luxury for me. So, I decided, as the song "Five Miles Out" by Mike Oldfield goes, to utter the fateful words: "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Calling all stations! In great difficulty, over." Even though I knew I'd end up in a mental hospital, and I didn't want that at all. And it was scary. But it had to be done. The situation was becoming critical, but I couldn't handle it on my own anymore. My poor brain, in that moment and state, could come up with nothing better than to spam all available communication channels. But perhaps it was for the best. Approximately 20-30 people, including colleagues and sympathizers from various chats, called the ambulance simultaneously. I opened the front door to the apartment, prepared all the necessary documents, and sat on the floor waiting for the paramedics. When they arrived, all I could do was respond to questions with "Ich spreche kein Deutsch." Surprisingly, when they took me to the ambulance, they didn't take my phone away. My brain decided to seize the moment and take a photo for memory. In it, I am utterly out of it, almost unconscious, trying to smile and giving a thumbs-up. Part 5: Hard Reset The moment when the paramedics were escorting me out of my home and taking me in the ambulance, I remember only in fragmented memories and the photos I took in the vehicle. I don't remember arriving at the hospital either, but I do vaguely recall struggling against the medical staff and trying to escape the hospital. In short, I was acting out. A nurse later informed me that I was temporarily not allowed to leave the hospital building or go outside. It's not permitted for those who are combative. He also told me that I was kept under haloperidol for the entire weekend. It was Friday evening, and on weekends, patients like me are not given much attention. The doctors didn't know what to do with me and, as I later learned, suspected that I was on drugs. So, they resorted to the old, harsh method of haloperidol. For the entire weekend, as there was no one to examine me on a weekend. And this weekend, no matter how hard I try to remember, I can't. I can only describe the beginning of the following week when they stopped the haloperidol and I started to regain some clarity. Firstly, all weekend, - I apologize for the explicit detail, - it was very difficult for me to go to the toilet. The activity took anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour of excruciating pain. It felt as if my muscles were constantly contracted, and there was nothing I could do about it. This frightened me, and overall, I was in a state of heightened anxiety. However, I couldn't fully grasp what was happening at the time. All I could do was repeatedly mutter my magical phrase, "Ich spreche kein Deutsch," to everyone I could see. On Monday, I still didn't know that I had spent the entire weekend under haloperidol. However, I began to suspect something when an intense, inexplicable anxiety hit me in the morning, which then turned into a neck spasm in the afternoon, causing my head to tilt sharply to the side and tremble. It was terrifying and confusing. I tried to explain something to the doctors and repeatedly called the on-duty nurse to my room, but all I was given was a heating pad. And later, finally, some tablets, which made me sleep deeply and for a long time. By Tuesday, I could vaguely recall what had happened to me over the weekend. But only that I felt as if I were dying but couldn't die. A very unpleasant feeling. Brrr, even thinking about it is unpleasant. They also abruptly (very, very abruptly) discontinued Zoloft, which I had been on for the past two years, and it was really painful. The first week of withdrawal syndrome felt like electric shocks to the brain whenever I turned my head or changed my focus. Very unpleasant. Sometimes it seemed that I was about to faint at any moment. Luckily, that didn't happen. Today, the withdrawal syndrome has almost passed, and I am continuing treatment with another medication as prescribed by my treating psychiatrist. Part 6: Dona Nobis Pacem Starting from Tuesday, I began to slowly come to my senses and finally managed to start eating properly. Before that, I remember being taken to the dining hall, but even a single bun would take me half an hour or an hour to chew, and I didn't always finish it. The fact that I could now eat normally alongside my fellow sufferers was a positive relief. Upon arrival at the hospital, I was given a rather pathetic sheet of paper with the daily schedule, but in my vegetative state, I was not ready to perceive the string of letters as anything coherent. I just stared at it out of boredom. However, I didn't ever need to understand the contents of that sheet: on Monday, I was transferred from the Station St. Johannes von Gott to the Station St. Norbert, and the schedule changed. The first station takes patients in acute conditions, as was the case with me. No wonder: I had tried to escape from the paramedics' grasp and run to freedom! The Station St. Norbert treats patients with addictions, and I was placed there because they suspected I had a drug addiction. Indeed, they interrogated me several times about whether I had taken anything unusual. I denied it, but they didn't believe me. After a blood test, they stopped bothering me. Nevertheless, they kept me in this station because I dutifully admitted that I did suffer from alcohol addiction. And, importantly, it was in this station that I began to recover and obtained a new schedule of my appointments. They gave me my phone so I could communicate with the medical staff using a translator, but it soon ran out of battery, and I had to spend a couple of days in social and informational isolation. During this time, my favorite activity became wandering the hospital corridors with a cup in hand, going to the water cooler and back (I will never forgive the Germans for calling sparkling mineral water "Classic" and regular still water "Fresh"). Unfortunately, one of the patients, observing my frequent visits to the cooler, reported it to the paramedics, who politely provided me with a personal pitcher. Thus, I lost my favorite pastime at the time, and the frequency of my visits to the water source reduced by about tenfold. Fortunately, with the help of my friends, I managed to get a charger for my phone, and I regained access to the Internet. Magical. The first thing I did when I got my phone back was to listen to music. The first track I stumbled upon in my collection was "Five Miles Out" by Mike Oldfield. And it turned out to be perfectly fitting for the moment. Incidentally, from Tuesday, I was instructed to attend all the events listed on my appointment sheet. Unfortunately, due to my poor knowledge of German, I could only attend sports activities and ergotherapy. The latter involved group sessions where people would sculpt clay, work with wood and stone, and so on. It turned out to be a very effective activity to help get myself mentally back on track. Unscheduled meetings were announced in advance by handing out plastic cards with information to the patients, which had to be returned after attending the event. Because I was bored and had little else to occupy myself with, I transferred all the appointments to my phone calendar. My stay at the clinic was marked by a strict daily routine: waking up at 6:30, measuring blood pressure, taking pills, breakfast at 7:00, sports, pills, and lunch at 12:00, afternoon snack at 14:30, pills and dinner at 17:30, blood pressure measurement and pills at 21:50, lights out at 22:00. This was good, as it disciplined me and allowed me to plan my activities within the hospital. For example, upon being transferred to the Station St. Norbert, I was finally allowed to leave the hospital building and go outside, so I could visit various interesting places like the cafeteria, gym, and so on. The schedule was very helpful to ensure I didn't miss any planned activities or meals. The food here was simply excellent, even better than some German restaurants I had tried. My favorite was the lunches: every day, they served new dishes, and they never repeated during my entire stay at the hospital. Amazing. On the day of my discharge, I even asked to stay a little longer to have a hearty lunch before leaving the hospital. A pleasant bonus was that my stay coincided with the Sommerfest: a summer festival with music, non-alcoholic drinks, and delicious food. All participants (read: patients) were given several food vouchers that they could use throughout the day for drinks and food of their choice. I exchanged my vouchers for fruit lemonade and a magnificent German sausage. Overall, my time at the hospital had a very positive impact on my mental well-being. I felt like a human being for the first time in a long while, honestly. After all, I was suddenly needed by so many people. And I realized that even more people cared about me. I'm referring to the moment when numerous strangers or acquaintances of mine were calling the ambulance to help me. As soon as I started feeling better, I ordered various things through Amazon: clothes, shoes, a Garmin watch (I needed to compensate for my moral suffering somehow), a harmonica, and so on. I didn't think delivery to a psychiatric hospital would work, but the staff brought the items directly to my room. A magical country. On the hospital grounds, there is a special therapeutic staff member named Mr. Cat (a real ginger cat), who resides on the first floor and occasionally looks outside. When I was brought in for treatment and assigned to the first floor, Mr. Cat kept a close watch on the proceedings. Part 7: The Lesson The discharge process didn't go as smoothly as I had expected: I was evicted from my room right after lunch and spent an hour wandering aimlessly in limbo. A little later, I asked the medical staff when I would finally get my documents back and be able to go home, which led to me being taken to a doctor who asked why I thought I was supposed to go home. The question threw me off. I said, "I was told so." "Who told you?" - and things went on from there. Ultimately, they sorted it out among themselves and eventually released me to the long-awaited freedom. Amusingly, I also had an experience in a Russian psychiatric hospital where there was a similar mix-up with my discharge. Back then, however, I wasn't there because of burnout but because of depression that came into my life after losing my father to cancer. I was fourteen years old at the time. So, what did I learn? 1. I finally started running in the mornings. I had long struggled to force myself to do it, but here, I didn't have to force myself: it just happened. Today, like yesterday, like the day before yesterday, and so on, I ran about a kilometer in the morning before having breakfast. 2. A new framework for my daily schedule. Over a couple of weeks, I got used to waking up at the same time and eating four times a day. Before this, I would fall asleep and wake up at all sorts of odd times and barely ate. Sometimes only once a day instead of four. 3. The hospital literally reset my brain, and now I have the strength again to tackle my problems with my psychotherapist and move forward. 4. I realized - which turned out to be very important in the context of harsh social isolation - that I am not alone. There are many caring people around me, always ready to help. And that is amazing. The main thing is that I no longer intend to drink. Upon returning home, I found an open but unfinished bottle of wine, and it hit me hard. Now, it seems I have developed a strong aversion to alcohol, as I can't even think about it without feeling nauseous. Although this isn't the most rational reaction, - alas! - it's what I have. Thank you all for the support - both material and mental! Big hugs to everyone! On to the next chapter. Copyright (c) 2024 contact@renecoignard.com Powered by Weblog v1.17.16