I went to the hospital yesterday. I'd had a really bad friday night, and saturday morning started off on the same low. So, I went. Andrea couldnt take it - couldnt take me anymore.
I arrived and sat down at one of those chairs and the guy asked why I was there. He asked only the important questions in the best possible tone of voice. I was thankful for his seemingly genuine care and concern.
He then sent me over to the admitting desk where the last was far too happy and asked all the same questions. No need to ask them again..at least not in my mind. She eventually got things figured out and ushered me over to the main waiting area. I was numb by this point. I was quieting my sobs.
The first guy found me, gave me some water and put me in the quiet area - where there were no people. I openly wept here, with the lights off for quite some time.
Dr. Moore then came in and pretty much said and did nothing except ask what my lithium levels where if I had indeed gotten them checked. .47. Then he left saying someone from the crisis unit was coming. More crying - this time louder coming from a deep place within myself.
The crisis guy came, I think his name was Alec. He was far too peppy, and was trying to make jokes and be all light hearted. I honestly wanted to stab him violently and furiously and repeatedly. Ive never felt such rage towards a person sitting right in front of me. Same questions; why am I here, why do I feel that way, whats my home like life...etc..etc..Can no one read a fucking file?
More waiting - more crying - this time in the light because Mr. Peppy McStupidFuck turned it on when I asked him to keep it off.
Then they moved me to the waiting room, and originally the same chairs, where we were told we were losing Joah. Another meltdown.
I got up and changed chairs. They let me walk around, go wherever I wanted. How dangerous I thought. I could easily walk into on coming traffic, find a bunch of pills, hurt myself in 8,000 ways and they would never know because no one was keeping track. I didn't though - to be honest, looking back now I almost wish I had. At least then they would have morally felt some blame - after all I was there to get help for suicidal thoughts and if they couldn't keep track of me, what more could I have done?
I got angry at Andrea as well. I dont know why - but I did.
They moved me to a bed: in the clinical decision unit. Its essentially a place where they put people who need a bed but they dont really know where they will be going or how long they will be staying. And that was my home.
I asked to shut the curtains - and then I cried. I cried hard, and loud and into my pillow. I so wanted something to just knock me the fuck out. I could leave anytime I wanted. No one was watching me - no one cared. Here I was trying to get help - the last resort, and it didn't even matter.
I think anyone who comes in there because they are suicidal should immediately get some sort of numbing something. Something to just take the epic meltdown that is coming just simply from checking yourself into the hospital.
I knit. I read. I tried to distract myself - and in between it all I cried.
Andrea came - though I told her I didnt want her to. I didnt want her to see me like that - nor did I want her to leave. It all just sucked. But she came anyways - braided my hair, and laid down besife me.
I took my new pill, Seroquel, and within about 30 minutes felt so overwhelmingly slow and drunk. This is how I am to feel now. Numb and slow and drunk - though I guess thats better than suicidal. She left - I cried.
I kind of slept. With no windows - its very hard. My whole clock is screwed up - even now.
When it was time to wake up - I couldnt. Well I could. But I didnt care. I could lay in bed and sleep all day; not because I was tired but because I didnt care.
Andrea and Remy came to visit - and I cared, but I couldnt care. All of me, all of my feelings, everything was hidden behind the giant blanket of emotional nothingness.
And then wiggers came. And wiggers said I should go home and I should take a week off work. And that was enough to lift the blanket. I now feel like a wreck. Like nothing has changed - like I wasted 24hours of my life and have no been thrown back into this giant pit of soul sucking anxiety than is eventually going to be too much for me.
And what if it is? What happens if it does get too much for me? What do I do then? I've already gone to the hospital - already gone that route - that is the last resort.
Having tried the last option - I am terrified of what happens now. I'm already not handling it well - at all.