The 24th One, Part Two.
Evening,
Subheading: Welp.
Unfortunately, I was incorrect in my last entry when I said I was through the worst of the storm. This entry starts off bleak, but hang in there.
"Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
How does it?
I don't know. It's a mystery."
-Shakespeare in Love
During much of the week I felt moments away from some unknown disaster. On Monday afternoon I went into my appointment with my PA to discuss new medication, as I promised I would. As soon as she walked in the room though, I had a complete breakdown. I sobbed to her for probably close to a half an hour about various things. When I finished explaining where I was, she told me this was probably something beyond what she could help me with, and asked me how I felt about going to the psychiatric ER. I told her that I didn't want to go if all they could do is sedate me for awhile, give me Xanax, and send me home. That I didn't trust myself anymore, my thoughts were racing, and I was frightened. At that point she gently squeezed my hand and said, "No, we are past that point. You are in a very fragile place, and we need to get you some immediate attention. You will be able to talk to a psychiatrist, and they can recommend what to do from there." Since that was at least some kind of forward movement I agreed to go, and she called an ambulance to take me to the ER.
The ER was a blur of explaining why I was there to one person, then another, then another. Stephanie came to the waiting room to sit with me while they figured out what to do with me. She gave hugs, encouraged me that I was doing the right thing, helped me make sense of paperwork. I had just been staring at it, clutching the pen they gave me. I stared at the TV playing Food Network, and it all felt surreal.
Ultimately I was sent to Hillsdale's inpatient treatment, which was a 1.5 hour ambulance ride. I didn't arrive there until after three AM Tuesday morning, and then I had to explain to multiple other people why I was there. I filled out more paperwork, and all my possessions were taken from me and locked up, except my pen. No one noticed that I had that.
At 7:15 they woke me up for breakfast, but I wanted nothing to do with food. I stopped by the nurse's station for something, and in my hands I had the yellow workbook they gave me and my pen. One of the nurses saw it and said, "Where did you get that pen? You can't have that." It took me a minute to understand that I couldn't have the pen because they didn't think it was safe for me to have a pen. The gravity of the situation hit me in that moment, and I once again broke down crying.
I went back to sleep after that. They woke me again to see if I wanted to come to the morning group therapy, I declined, and went back to sleep. Around 10am they woke me again to let me know it was my turn to talk to the psychiatrist. As soon as I sat down, I once again broke down sobbing. He patiently listened to me explain where I was, that I was afraid of myself and my ability to regulate my emotions. He asked a lot of questions about my family's history with mental illness. He then asked me to explain things leading up to the last couple of weeks, and how it compared to other times I had an episode like this. After talking for quite awhile he told me that he suspects I have some form of bi-polar disorder; that only attempting to treat my depression/anxiety was very dangerous, and it was likely making my situation worse. With all of that explained to me, he changed me to a different anxiety/depression medication, and added two mood stabilizers.
Much of the rest of Tuesday is just a blur to me. Basically any time I was asked to talk about anything, I broke down crying. I was sleep deprived and beyond the point of being able to function properly. Stephanie drove to my house and fed my cats, then drove all the way to Hillsdale to visit me that afternoon. She brought me some things I needed from home. We talked for a little bit in the visiting area, and after she hugged me goodbye, I headed to evening group. I stayed in the common area after that, and when it got dark, we started hearing fireworks outside.
Fireworks don't look the same through mesh wire screens.
Wednesday I woke up feeling groggy and disoriented. After breakfast I took a nap, but I got up when they woke me for morning group, and something weird happened- I felt awake. I was still tired, but not the same kind of tired I have been for months on end. I was able to talk about things with the psychiatrist and in groups without crying. I was settling in, and feeling much less afraid. I attended most group sessions, of which there are many throughout the day, every day. Anger management, coping and mindfulness skills, medication education, relapse prevention, talk therapy, etc.
Thursday morning after breakfast, I didn't feel like I needed to go back to sleep. I checked in with the psychiatrist about how I was feeling on my new medications, and I was happy to share that I was having no negative side effects whatsoever, even though I had quit my Prozac completely instead of weaning off. He was very happy to hear that, and increased my anxiety medication a bit, but broke it into two doses daily instead of all at once. He told me that if after increasing my dose I still felt well, and I was able to set up a therapy appointment, I'd be able to leave on Saturday.
I talked a lot with my roommate that day, who I will refer to as Laurie. I found out that she was in the exact situation as me, and had been put on the same medications. We immediately formed a friendship and stuck together much of the rest of the time I was there. She gave me one of the new tubes of chapstick her Mom had brought for her, and offered to share her books with me. We read together, cried together, and somehow even laughed together. I will never forget her kindness.
Late afternoon on Thursday a couple new people were admitted, one I will refer to as Dave, and he also ended up being in the same situation as Laurie and I. I spent a chunk of time working with a nurse to get my therapy/psychiatrist appointments set up. She did most of the work, I just needed to send inquiries once she talked to people. I can't explain how relieved and grateful that made me feel.
Friday when I woke up for breakfast, I was wide awake. I was hungry and actually ate all of my food. I felt talkative and social, and didn't spend much time in my room at all. When I talked to the psychiatrist I was smiling and positive, and he was thrilled. He told me that I could definitely go home the next day. Dave and I watched National Treasure and National Treasure 2 and talked a lot. My thoughts were still sort of racing, but I could focus in on them, and push the unhelpful ones away. I practiced good coping skills. That evening we had a talk therapy group, which normally lasts about 30 minutes, but this woman sat and talked to Dave, Laurie and I for two hours. We all cried, and shared our stories, and encouraged each other. Laurie and I talked more in our room and then read awhile before bed.
Other random things I did during my time there:
1) Played Uno with a schizophrenic guy who had "Drop Dead" tattooed on his fingers while we watched Hercules.
2) Had another guy explain to me that if I tried meth I would be able to take a microwave apart. I asked him if I would be able to put it back together, and he said, "I mean maybe?"
3) Ate a lot of orange sherbet.
4) Compared tattoos with everyone there, minus the guy on meth's tattoo of Daffy Duck shaving his pubes.
5) I forgave myself.
That last one is probably the most important- though, the sherbet was damn delicious.
As Alex wisely noted to me today, I have been fighting the wrong battle. I have been fighting it for far too long. I have been pouring water into a cup with holes in the bottom and wondering why I can't drink from it. No matter how hard I was trying to get through my depression and regulate my emotions, it wasn't going to happen.
The psychiatrist explained to me that my form of being manic doesn't look like everyone else's, and that being manic can come in many forms. My form of being manic is racing thoughts, acting impulsively on those thoughts, being incapable of re-directing myself when I feel overwhelmed, and hyper fixating on things regardless of their actual importance. Then, once out of my manic place, I was back into a depressive state, and I stayed there a long time.
Today, I got my pen back. I was released today from the hospital, and for the first time in... I don't know how long, I felt like there was hope for me. I assured myself that I'm not a terrible person; I am a person that needs help, and grace, and support. I can't do this by myself, no matter what my irrational brain tells me. I'm not a burden to the people that love me. I might need to keep chanting this to myself, but I can do that.
On my way home I stopped at Barnes & Noble and purchased a book on being bi-polar. My first talk therapy appointment is on Monday morning, and my first appointment with the psychiatrist that will be helping me from this point on is on the 17th. I am armed with many other helpful resources from my time in the hospital, and my new friend, Laurie. We want to be part of each other's support system.
I'm feeling ready for the work ahead of me, and proud of myself for going to the ER, and choosing to surrender to this process. Realizing that my capability of coping on my own was virtually non-existent, and that I needed immediate help, was the best thing that I could have done for myself. I do not know what it means to be a bi-polar person, but I'm ready to talk through it, and learn.
Even after only a few days on this new medication, I feel like an entirely different human. I'm no longer scared. I feel strong.
Thank you to everyone who has been checking in on me since my last entry. It means a lot to me.
As always, I hope you enjoyed this stuff, and come back for more things.
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