It has been just over a year since my first hospitalization, and nearly a year for my second more real one. It's a somber time for me - remembering where I was a year ago. Remembering how desperate I was. How I walked 17km in one night, how I strangled myself with a belt, how I thought those very very bad thoughts that I still can't bring to share with anyone or say out loud. I remember so clearly various stages of my hospital stay.
- pacing the hallway after I was given a tranquilizer in pain because I was so tired and needed to lay down.
- waking up periodically to see Andrea at my bedside.
-the walk in the wheelchair
-Sitting in the common room writing in my journal while the other patients carried on their business.
-Having a shower and crying.
Mostly I remember how I felt during that time. The desperation. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been good for me, as much as it would have sucked, to stay in longer than two days. The break from reality was nice in a way, and it truly was a break, but I felt guilty for being away and for not contributing at home. Looking back I realized the reason I didn't want to stay was more because I didn't want to miss work because I didn't want to financially burden my family. How crazy is that? I let myself be exposed and vulnerable when I needed the most help because of work. That's so irresponsible of me. Maybe I would have gotten better quicker if I had given myself that time. Who knows now.
All I do know is I can't get those 3 weeks out of my head. Can't forget about being released so close to halloween and nearly crying as we went trick or treating because I felt like such a failure at life. I will never forget those 3 weeks of pure misery wherein I was hospitalized twice. This, being the first year anniversary, makes it so much harder.