There's really no way to break this up, so it's all in one piece. Mental health/suicide are discussed, so if that triggers anything in you, you may not want to read this.
My treatment wasn't going as it should. I was still struggling. A lot. I was having a very hard time coping with life, and was having a ton of panic attacks, and not knowing what they were. I finally decided that I had had enough, and couldn't deal with it any more.
I gathered up all my medication, and was in the kitchen with a handful of pills and a glass of water when Jake walked in. He emptied my hand, and asked me if I'd taken any of them yet. I said no, and he had his brother watch the girls while he drove me to the ER. I sat on a gurney in the hall way for five hours before a psychiatrist came to talk to me.
She talked to me for a minute, and she and Jake had me admitted. I was wheeled upstairs where my shoes were taken away, as was the jewelry I was wearing. I was only allowed to keep my wedding ring. They took my engagement ring, because it was sharp. He left, because it wasn't visiting hours, and went home.
By the time he got there, his parents were there and were watching the girls. He explained to them, and called my parents. They all met at the hospital, but weren't allowed to see me that first day. I wasn't allowed to have visitors until after the doctor saw me. The cafeteria was locked, and I couldn't get anything but a drink of water unless it was snack time.
I wouldn't eat, because I wasn't allowed to see anyone. I laid in my bed, and wouldn't talk to anyone. I didn't want to be there. I wanted to be dead. I wanted the pain to be gone. I was tired of fighting all the time... Waging a losing war against an army in my head that knew more about me than I did. I couldn't take it any more. I was ready to surrender.
The doctor came the next morning to see me. He gave me a new list of medications, and handed me print-outs to read about them. Group therapy was complete baloney. There wasn't anything there that could help me. The other people there were there for reasons entirely different from me. How could one therapy help a schizophrenic, a Vietnam vet with PTSD, a woman who was in because she got mad at her landlord and stabbed him, me, and a guy with Down's Syndrome who was there because he couldn't process his mother's death? It was a waste of my time, and I spent it sitting there staring at the wall, waiting for it to be over, so I could go back to my room until visiting hours.
I wouldn't let them bring the girls onto the ward to see me. I didn't want them to see me there. My legs got hairy, because I didn't want anybody to watch me shower. That was gross, the hair on my legs. And in my armpits too. That was hard for me to deal with. After five days, I was deemed no longer a threat to myself, was told to contact my psychiatrist, and was sent home. I was sent home on my father's birthday.
I went home, took a shower and shaved. Then I went to my parent's for my father's birthday party. I sat on the couch, and was literally ignored by every single person there. That began a trend that continues to this day. That year, Maddy didn't have a birthday party. I was released on the 23rd of January, and relapsed the 25th.
I went back into the hospital, but refused to go to the same one. Maddy's birthday is the 28th. She turned 3 that year. The second hospital was much better. I was in a room with a private bathroom with a shower, and was able to check a razor out at the nurse's station. The rule was, if the razor wasn't back in 10 minutes, they came in after it. So, I'd shave, get out, return the razor, then get back in and finish my shower.
I was allowed to have my iPod at night to sleep, and the ward looked more like a hotel lobby than a psych ward. There were maybe 12 patients on the ward. I'd say 8 of them were bipolar and there for exactly the same reason as me. The other 4 were there for substance abuse problems. Suddenly, group therapy was helpful.
The doctor actually cared, and sat there for an hour in a private session (when most are 15 min. if you're lucky to get that much time out of them) explaining what was going on with me, and what my diagnosises meant, and what they'd mean in my life, and what each of my medications was supposed to do, and how long I could expect to be on each one, and answered any questions I had, etc. I was there just shy of a week, and when I was released, it was under a stipulation. I could go home, but was still hospitalized on an outpatient basis.
I had to go to "PHP" (partial hospitalization program). From 9am-2pm, I was at the hospital for group and individual therapy, seminars on coping techniques, check-ups, etc. I was in PHP for 6 weeks, and the stipulation of PHP was that if I missed 2 days, I would be re-admitted onto D-wing (the inpatient ward). I learned so much while in PHP, and don't think I'd be alive today if it weren't for that program, and the things that I learned there. I learned to empower myself with knowledge, and to fight to be an active part of my recovery and mental health.
I learned my full diagnosis, and what it meant for me. (Bipolar I, with dysphoric mania and psychosis; OCD; SAD; Generalized Anxiety Disorder) I learned ways to cope with what I have to live with, even though none of it works all the time, but at least all of it works some of the time.
Up Next? An Ultimatum and A Break-Up.
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