2017

Hard to believe it’s been over year since I last wrote.

The last part of 2016 was a blur, and 2017 has largely been a year of re-building.

I did finally get a job in October of 2016 at a credit union. The hours were conducive to continuing to see Dr. P, and the health insurance not only covered seeing him but was incredibly affordable. I didn’t think I’d be able to work full time and still fit in a drive to Mayo, but it ended up working out. Working was incredibly difficult but we needed the money, the insurance, the stability. I dragged myself through each day, saw Dr. P every other week, took my medications, did what I was supposed to do. I still ended up being hospitalized yet another time, but with a doctors excuse I didn’t get into trouble at work despite having no PTO. So I picked myself back up and continued on.

Things came to a crashing halt at the end of December and I became horribly suicidal again. Dr. P and the husband were fed up at this point, and I felt like nobody cared anymore. I sent an email letting Dr. P know that I was offing myself, set up shop in our basement, and tried to hang myself. For better or worse, it’s not as easy as it seems. During the whole process, the police showed up –  Dr. P had contacted them. In an attempt to avoid being chaptered, they sat with me while I contacted the local psych hospital and asked to be admitted. I was told by the on-call doctor that I had to go to the ER to get checked out first, but that a bed would be available for me after getting medical clearance. So I went through the motions and checked myself in. I rang in 2017 in the psych ward.

A few days after I was admitted, I got a phone call from Dr. P. He wasted no time telling me he was done – he couldn’t treat me anymore. The excuse he gave was that he couldn’t handle the safety risk over state lines, although I’m sure there was much more to it than that. I wasn’t improving under his care, that much I’ll admit. He had confessed earlier that he wasn’t used to failing and I think my lack of improvement put him in a tough position.

I left the hospital with no psychiatrist or therapist, and probably just as suicidal, so really I was in a worse shape than when I had walked in. And that’s how my 2017 begun. At rock bottom.

The rest of the year has been a slow progression towards finding myself again.

I went back to my job and limped by each day. I hated going – I was an outcast among my co-workers, I felt belittled and useless, and the hours wore on me.

I started seeing a psychiatrist that I had seen as a teenager. I hated him and thought he did a horrible job, and he made it clear he thought I might need more specialized care than he could provide. But my insurance didn’t cover a whole lot in the area and I decided all I needed was someone to prescribe the medications, so I stuck it out with him.

We put our house on the market after being denied a loan modification for our mortgage. I was (and am) devastated that my illness stole our beautiful home from us. The selling process was brutal – keeping the house spotless, late-night showings, waiting on pins and needles during inspections and appraisals. Packing was horrible and sad and seemed like it never ended.

Moving got to be too much for me and I eventually couldn’t get myself to go to work anymore. I was just overwhelmed and horribly depressed, so I took another leave of absence. It started as two weeks, then three, then a month, and finally ended with me deciding to leave my job altogether. No doubt, a huge weight was lifted when I sent in my resignation.

We moved to a big Victorian home on my husband’s family farm. It needed a little TLC, which I enjoy, so I tried to focus on the excitement of house renovations as much as possible.

We made quite a bit of money from the sale of our home, so with that we’ve been able to afford me not working and Ella going to daycare 3x/week. Since the boys started back at school, that means I have 3 days a week where I can just focus on me. Admittedly, I don’t accomplish as much as someone who stays at home with no kids should. I spend a lot of my time outside the house, bumming at Target or running miscellaneous errands. When I am home, I’m usually stuck to my phone, or lately, reading. The depression has still been a significant barrier to living a normal life, and there have been several days where just getting the kids out the door is the only hurdle I can manage to jump. We eat out a lot because I hate cooking and grocery shopping, and the laundry still has a tendency to pile up. Eventually, though, things are getting accomplished. I have good days where I’m able to clean the bathrooms and vacuum the floors. The clothes get clean, folded, and put away. I’m able to help with some work for my mother-in-law, my kids are making it to their doctor and dentist appointments, and occasionally I prepare a hot meal. The good days, while still a struggle, are coming more frequently.

Most importantly, I haven’t been in the hospital since January.

I recently had an intake appointment with a new psychiatrist. She seemed to agree with all of Dr. P’s diagnoses – even the Bipolar II that I was questioning (although I just checked my chart today and she didn’t list Borderline as one of the diagnoses which irritates me). I explained to her that the unrelenting depression was by far my biggest issue right now, and I also told her the numerous medication trials I’ve had to try to find relief. She suggested increasing my Wellbutrin and I have to admit – every day since the increase has been better than the last. I still struggle with nights – for some reason when 7pm rolls around, my mood dips significantly – but even the dips have been better. More impressively, the only other medication I’m on is Latuda. I can’t complain about only having two medications on board.

With daycare costs and now Christmas coming up, our large chunk of money from our home sale is being depleted quickly. While I’m upset that we blew through the money in a matter of months, I also don’t know that we could have spent it any wiser. The ability to stay home and take each day as it comes has been everything I have needed.

The holidays will hopefully be a good distraction for me and it keeps me busy. While last year I struggled just to get the Christmas tree up, this year our entire house is decorated and festive. I started our Christmas shopping in October which is helping things to feel a little less stressful, but I’m also not trying to balance work with getting everything done.

While things certainly are far from perfect, I can absolutely say that I’m in a much better spot than I was at this time last year. For that, I’m incredibly grateful.

So here’s to hoping 2018 is even better.

I Quit.

I gave up.

I failed.

I wanted the job to work. I wanted everything about it to work. I wanted to get away from the house and the kids, I wanted some structure and routine, I wanted to feel a sense of accomplishment and belonging. We needed the money, especially with birthdays and holidays coming up. Especially to try to save our home.

I couldn’t even get through the training.

I showed up for training this morning and barely made it through the 4 hours. I was miserable and uncomfortable and I couldn’t even sit still because I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. I came home during my lunch break, before I was scheduled to shadow at the clinic I was hired for. I was suicidal and contemplating downing whatever pills I had access to. To me, failing wasn’t a decision I could live with, but neither was continuing to force myself through it. No matter what direction I went, ending my life was the least painful option.

I called my mom and talked it through with her before emailing the manager of the clinic and informing her that I wasn’t able to continue in the position. The response hasn’t come yet and I’m dreading it.

Dr. P is of course in Europe again. He was trying so hard to get me through this – I feel like I’ve failed him on top of everyone else in my life.

I don’t know what direction to go in next. I’m still struggling with an intense urge to continue giving up. If this is all my life is going to be, I don’t want to be a part of it. Tom wanted me to go to the hospital, and Dr. P suggested the same when I told him I was highly suicidal again. I’m not being hospitalized for a 6th time in less than a year. I guess my focus needs to be on figuring out what my alternatives are. How can I get through this?

I let myself down. I let everyone down.

I’m just not okay.

Cloudy With a Chance of Failure

There’s so much I should write about. Or, better yet, should have already written about. Like the failed trial of quitting my medication and the horrific depression that followed. Or my 5th hospitalization, and how I was threatened with restraining orders by my husband who didn’t want me to come home.  Or about almost losing my ability to work with Dr. P following that ordeal, because he questioned the efficacy of our treatment over the last 9 months and no longer felt he could manage all the crises. Or about my job search, my DBT group experiences, the seemingly endless conflict with Dr. P, the depression that underlines everything.

But, clearly, I didn’t. And I’m not sure the details matter right now (although I do know that I’ll be sad when they leave my memory without having been recorded).

Still, the struggle continues.

As part of the begging and pleading during my last hospitalization, I promised everyone, including myself, that I would get a job. I managed to accomplish that relatively quickly and was offered a part-time gig at a health clinic as an office assistant. I’m happy that I didn’t have to settle for a mundane retail job, although I’m not sure how challenging and exciting this job will be either.

My anxiety about starting this job is almost unbearable. I worry about my inability to handle working 2 days a week. I worry about what happens when the depression is too much and the suicidal thoughts take over and I stop caring about going to work. I worry about needing to be hospitalized again, this time with a job to lose on top of everything else. I’m panicking about arranging childcare around a job, a DBT group, and appointments with Dr. P – we simply don’t have the money to make it all work. I’m dreading having to start over in yet another position, and the minimum 6 months it seems to take before I feel even remotely comfortable with what I’m doing and where I’m at. I fear that I’ll hate the work, or the people, or the environment, and I fear how I’ll react to that. I’m nervous about my inability to handle all the demands that will be placed on me by trying to juggle a job, two kids in school, and the multiple appointments I need to keep.

I know I should be excited for many reasons, but it’s all clouded by my fear of failure.

At some point I have to get on with living. I have to switch back to being a functioning member of society instead of a professional patient. I have to get my shit together. I’m just not confidant that I can do it right now. I don’t feel as ready as I would like to feel.

I have various forms of orientation and training almost everyday for the next 2 weeks which is going to be a rough adjustment for me. I’m not used to the daily grind anymore and I barely feel capable of handling it. The fact that this is all so overwhelming is ridiculous – how did things get this bad?

In the meantime, I’m struggling with the DBT group requirement that Dr. P placed on me as a condition to continuing to work with me. I’ve now tried 2 different groups and don’t find them to be the slightest bit helpful. The newest one, which I started yesterday, included all of 10 minutes of actual DBT skills training (the other 50 minutes were taken up by several group members rambling on about useless things). My frustration with DBT is only increasing by my failed attempts at finding a group that can actually help me learn the skills. I don’t learn by someone telling me what to do. I learn by actually doing it. Yet nobody, including Dr. P, is offering to apply the DBT skills to my real life situations. I can memorize all the acronyms and skills, but they are completely useless if I don’t know how and when to implement them. Neither of the groups I’ve been to has been interactive enough to provide that information.

One thing I miss about Dr. A was that he actively worked on helping me to use different skills in various situations. I guess I’m not sure why, with all the emailing I do with Dr. P, he can’t offer suggestions in the same way. I need someone to help me recognize when and what skills need to be used.

It all seems pointless.

Overall, I can’t say I’m at a great point in this ongoing saga. I think from everyone else’s perspective, things are going pretty well for the first time in almost a year. I haven’t quite bought into that yet – there’s still so much opportunity to let them all down and face failure yet again.

 

 

Identity Crisis

Confession:

I have no idea what “normal” is for me, and that terrifies me.

I feel like every ounce of me is disordered.

I’m sure I would be told that I should be focusing less on labeling the different states that I’m in and focusing more on “noticing” and “accepting” and “being patient” with myself. I don’t work like that, though. I need to understand. I need the labels. Maybe it helps with the false sense of control that Dr. P tells me I seek.

At the same time, he tells me I need to “experience” my emotions more. So maybe I should be focusing on the different states that I’m in? Doesn’t labeling go hand-in-hand with experiencing?

I’m so confused.

I don’t know what’s borderline me. I don’t know whats bipolar me. I don’t know what’s me me. Is it depression? Is it a borderline symptom? Is it a mixed state? Is it hypomania? Am I even really any or all of these things? What if what’s labeled as borderline or bipolar is just simply who I am? What if I’m not actually diseased – just flawed? Can’t someone be crazy without actually being crazy?

Maybe me quitting my meds is contributing to some of this. Or maybe it isn’t.

That is the whole problem.

I have no idea what’s up and what’s down at this point.

If I’m not on any meds, then whoever I am right now is just that. So does it have a label or am I just being my version of normal?

It’s hard to get better when you don’t even know what you’re aiming for. Maybe part of the problem is that the person I WANT to be and the person I’m actually capable of being are two different things. Maybe my idea of better/recovered/healthy isn’t realistic.

I’m not sure I have any ability to identify what state I’m currently in.

I was suicidal the past several days. Thursday was pretty bad. Friday wasn’t great. There was talks of hospitals and ER’s and other emergency services. I held it together and I felt slightly more in control Friday night. None of it was necessarily laced with a crippling depression – it was/is just simply not wanting to live this life. There’s no other way to put it – I just don’t want to live. I’m not in unbearable emotional pain, I just hate living.

Yesterday felt somewhat normal, if that even exists for me.

Today feels weird. My thoughts are racing, I have a bit more motivation to do stuff (but it doesn’t feel like it’s any sort of a manic level), I’m not quite as intent on dying. I got groceries, unloaded the dishwasher, worked on laundry – normal activities of daily living that I’ve been finding extra-difficult lately. It’s hard to concentrate, my mood is elevated yet I have those creeping thoughts of cutting and sex. It’s so all over the board.

Maybe stopping the meds wasn’t my best idea, but I had determined I was done with drugs and therapy and I was sticking to it. So here we are.

Even when things are going well, they’re not. I’m so annoyed with it all.

The Rebuilding Phase

I suppose I’m overdue for an update. Why can I not stick to writing??

I was hospitalized again, right after Ella’s birthday weekend. We had her party by no small miracle – my parents did a large portion of the work needed to be ready for it all – and even then, it was almost cancelled at the last minute – I was that unstable. I’m happy we forged ahead (but I was even more happy that it was over).

Hospitalization #4 came a few days after beginning my 3rd week in the intensive outpatient program. It just wasn’t going well, there were beds available, and I think everyone breathed a sigh of relief when I was finally locked up again. I wasn’t happy about the situation and it took a lot for me to accept that it was the best decision despite not really wanting it to be.

So I did another week of hard time.

When I left I didn’t feel overwhelmingly stabilized like the previous time, which was disappointing. I guess I had hoped for that burst of the “I’m so happy I’m alive and I’m ready to move on and live again” attitude, but it didn’t come. Instead, I ended up curled up in a ball in bed, so mentally anguished that my entire body physically ached. I was more depressed than I had been before – too depressed to have the energy to try to kill myself. It was a different kind of depressed – it felt more clinical and all-consuming vs. the emotional misery that I was used to. It’s difficult to describe depression in various forms. You would think it’s all the same, that it feels it the same. But just like there’s several ways you can feel a headache, there’s several ways that depression manifests itself in your head. The depression I was in after I was released from the hospital was the kind where you would have needed a spatula to scrape me up off of the bed that I was seemingly molded into. Every ounce of existing hurt and there was no escape from it, even when I was sleeping.

At my next appointment, I begged Dr. P to put me on an antidepressant. He told me he doesn’t put bipolar patients on antidepressants because they induce mania, which in his world is bad (in my world, especially at that particular point, I would have done anything to be manic). He finally agreed to start me on the lowest dose of Wellbutrin – the only antidepressant he’ll ever prescribe for Bipolar. Apparently I’m only the 2nd person he’s done this for. Should I be honored?

The Wellbutrin has been ridiculously helpful in terms of my energy. For the first time in over a decade, I don’t feel like I need to sleep constantly (and I actually find it difficult to nap during the day). I can get out of bed and stay out bed, and I can be a productive member of society. I don’t feel like the depression is eating me from the inside out, although it’s still there in yet another (more tolerable) form.

I’ve been out of the hospital and fairly stable for 47 days now. It’s pathetic that this a celebration for me, but it is. It feels like it’s been longer – I’m still struggling enough that time seems to be crawling by – but even so, it’s the longest and most stable I’ve been since December.

I’m in the “rebuilding” phase of this epic meltdown, but the walls aren’t going up fast enough. It hasn’t been easy to try to pick up the broken pieces of my life – I’ve lost so much. I’m struggling with being the mom my kids need me to be, I’m desperate to get back to a job of some sort (but I’m not willing to settle for something I know I’ll hate), and my dreams of going back to school still weigh heavily on my mind. Now that the storm has quieted down, I’m finally seeing all the damage that has been done – not just in the last 6 months, but in the last few years that this downhill slide began. I fell down pretty far and it’s quite the daunting task trying to get back up.

Baby steps, though, right? At least things have calmed down a little. At least everyone (including myself) isn’t constantly wondering if I’m going to kill myself if I’m left alone for any period of time. I’m not in a constant state of crisis, I’m a bit more rational, and I feel bits and pieces of the “normal” me starting to come back out. I think we’re all just grateful that the worst is seemingly behind us. That’s all I can really ask for at this particular juncture. I still have a LONG way to go before I’ll feel like I’m on solid ground, but at least I’m on my way there.

Hanging By a Thread

I continue to be a ticking time bomb.

I’m officially signed up for another week of being in this intensive outpatient program. As Dr. P says, I’m “just getting attached” to the program and could use another week to get my feet fully on the ground.

My feet aren’t even halfway on the ground.

The question of needing a higher level of care continues to come up from all angles. My parents wonder if it’s necessary, Tom wonders, Dr. P wonders, the staff wonders. I suppose I wonder, too.

I’m trying to stay out of the hospital. It doesn’t feel good to say I’ve been hospitalized 3 times in the last 5 months, and I don’t really want to add another to the list. I have to wonder if the hospitalizations are hurting me more than they’re helping. I know the intent is to keep me safe, but am I just chronically suicidal and beyond that? Any amount of research into hospitalizing those with BPD says that it shouldn’t be done under almost any circumstance, and if it is done, it should be no longer than a 24 – 48 hour stay. According to Marsha Lineman, hospitalizing a borderline reinforces the suicidal “behavior.” I’m unsure how that’s the case, and my last stay on 3W proved to be ridiculously helpful in stabilizing me, so I’m not sure I’m in 100% agreement. Still, I don’t want to be that borderline that is in and out of the hospital for extended periods of time.

Dr. P originally thought that this was more of bipolar issue than a borderline one, which is why I think the hospitalizations were looked at differently. I’m under the impression that he thinks my current issues are more in the borderline territory, which isn’t something I’m exactly proud of. In fact, it really fucking sucks. I thought most of that was behind me. Is this a full-blown relapse? Or could it possibly still be a chemical issue and maybe not my fault?

The other reason for staying out of the hospital, at least for this weekend, is because Ella’s first birthday is on Saturday. It’s incredibly hard for me to come to terms with the fact that her entire first year is behind us. I feel like I missed the majority of it, and in a sense her birthday just reminds me of the time that I will never get back with her. I didn’t get to enjoy many of her “firsts”, wasn’t around to watch her grow, or was too stuck in my head to notice the little joys of each day. I failed her as a mom, and now her first year is coming to a close and I mourn the loss of those precious moments.

I have to at least be there for her birthday. I will never forgive myself if I’m locked on a psych ward while my little girl celebrates her first year of life. I’m trying to navigate these choppy waters so I can make it home safely and be the mom I’m supposed to be. It’s honestly a daunting task, though. I’m barely hanging on. How pathetic.

I’m making the 3.5 hour trek home after the program today. I’ll hopefully be home by 7:30 – just in time to snuggle my boys and tuck them into bed for the night. I was excused from the program tomorrow so I can try to get things in order for Ella’s party on Saturday, but I’m struggling to gather the motivation to do what needs to be done. Luckily my mom has offered to help, so maybe with her urging, I can get the house looking decent and pull off a party that Ella deserves. I strongly regret planning a large party for her, but there’s no turning back now.

I’m so so exhausted from this battle.

Same Routine, Same Problems (or, What Not To Do When Your Therapist Already Hates You)

It’s the beginning of week #2 in the new program…

I’m still doing my normal routine of I hate everyone and everything and this program is useless and the staff are a bunch of idiots and I’m only here because I have no other options.

This occurs every. single. time I start a new program. It’s a theme and it gets me into a ton of trouble (i.e., people end up disliking me because I’m a giant bitch, and I leave programs that are actually helpful once I get settled), but it’s something that I feel I have no control over. I get that I could choose to act differently, but in that initial few days, the ability to actually make that choice goes directly out the window and explodes when it hits the ground.

I’ve been an angry, horrific bitch and it’s exhausting. I don’t WANT to be angry, but I am. I’m so powerless to stop it.

I’m once again making things worse for myself.

The staff at the program hates me. They emailed Dr. P about how I’m exhibiting “therapy interfering behaviors” and “affecting other borderlines in the group” with my attitude. Their assessments aren’t completely accurate, but it’s clear they don’t enjoy having me around.

Dr. P seems to be teetering on the edge of throwing in the towel, too. At one point, on Friday, he thought I was leaving the program without good reason and told me if I didn’t turn around and get back to the groups, he didn’t think I would be welcome to come back on Monday. If I got kicked out of the group, he would have to quit working with me because he can’t treat someone who lives 3.5 hours away and continues to do their own thing when distressed.

I’m that close to being thrown to the curb (like the piece of junk that I am) by everyone.

I felt better about showing up to the program yesterday. I felt more comfortable after being helped by some of my peers in the group, I had a good weekend with the kids, I had actually taken my Latuda with food as directed and felt the difference, and the sun was shining. I was ready to face the day.

Then they told me I was changing groups.

After feeling so good about things, I flipped my shit yesterday. I refused to attend the first group, I sat at a table by myself and cried, I yelled at Tom that I was done, that I just wanted to die and get it over with. I emailed Dr. P and told him I was once again considering leaving, and I didn’t care if he decided to stop working with me because he wasn’t working with me to begin with. I went to my car, cried some more, tried to figure out what to do. With Tom’s urging, I went back in and asked to speak to the staff. I wanted answers.

I yelled at them in the middle of the hallway. For a good 10-15 minutes. Everyone could hear our entire conversation. We stood in a doorway, they made zero effort to help me lower my distress level (other than continuing to say “You need to use your skills right now” to which I replied, “I CAN’T USE MY FUCKING SKILLS WHEN I’M THIS UPSET. THAT’S WHY I’M HERE!”), the other patients came and went around us, I continued to yell…

It was quite the scene.

They finally, after all of that, decided to take me into a room to continue the conversation. At this point one of the other staff members came and told the other two that she would talk to me. We went into one of the rooms and I continued to yell. I demanded answers and got none. I was told that life isn’t always “rainbows and lollipops” and that I basically needed to suck it up and get over it. She told me to use my skills, I told her she was trying to teach someone how to swim by throwing them in the deep end.

Ultimately, my kids and Dr. P are what forced me to stay. I walked out of the room, went upstairs to recreational therapy, and continued on with my day.

I have to wonder what exactly I’m still doing here. What am I getting out of this? As usual, my family is jumping through hoops to make getting treatment feasible. My parents are shelling out hundreds of dollars to put me up in a hotel so I can be here. My husband is taking care of 3 kids while trying to work in order to provide us with some sort of income (although it’s never enough because our account sits overdrawn as I type this), my kids haven’t had their mommy in months, Tom’s parents are helping us pay our bills and giving Tom full paychecks despite him being short on hours, etc.  Then there’s Dr. P, who is devoting endless time, energy and resources to try to help me and is only met with a stubborn, non-compliant patient who is now disrupting the program he directs. Everybody is doing everything they possibly can to allow me to get help.

And yet I’m still drowning.

Once again, I fully understand that I need to try harder and do better. I owe it to a lot of people. I just don’t know how to do that. I’m too busy drowning to learn how to swim.

I had a nightmare that I was hospitalized again. I remember, in the nightmare, thinking I’ve been hospitalized 4x in the last 5 months. I was devastated. I couldn’t believe that I was at the point that I was at.

I don’t know what it’s going to take to get me back to that point I was at over a month ago. I was happy and thriving. I was meeting life’s demands with a smile on my face. I was ME. Why can’t I have that back?

I swear I’m trying. It doesn’t look like it, or sound like it, but I am. I’m trying so hard. It’s just not good enough.

Where do I go from here?

 

Shattered

I haven’t been able to stop crying for the last 12 hours.

I’m being completely tortured by myself. The images of everything that happened a week ago just keep flooding me. I can hear myself crying and talking to the staff with pure desperation. I can hear myself telling them I didn’t need to be locked in a barren room. I can feel exactly how I felt in that moment – powerless, hopeless, broken, anguished, humiliated, desolate. I can see it all, I can hear it all, I can feel it all. Every. Single. Second.

And then I cry. And cry. And cry.

The amount of self-hatred I had before this all happened was barely tolerable. Now it’s beyond unbearable.

I’m trying so hard to push through this and come out stronger and do what I need to do. I feel like that’s nearly impossible, though. When I’m inundated with the memories  and feelings of a time when I wanted nothing more than to cease existing, all I want to do is cease existing.

I truthfully don’t know how to move on from all of this. It’s so cliche, but I am a complete shell of the person I used to be. And even my shell is shattered. 

Life of Horror

How do I possibly begin to sum up the last month?

As I explained it to Dr. P today, my life is a Stephen King novel. I am living a fucking horror story.

I’m tired of the instability. I’m tired of being okay for some time, but then being not-okay for an even longer period of time.

I was doing so well before I went to Boston. I felt like me, and it was awesome, and I was ready to move on with my life. Then I went to Boston, did my typical initial freak-out where I hated everyone and everything, had everyone back home get violently ill, and Tom  demanding that I come home. I ended up being in the program for a week. Of course, as always, I settled into the program and found it to be helpful and found myself regretting booking that ticket home. By the time I realized I wanted to stay, it was too late – I was pretty much told that I wasn’t welcome anymore, anyway.

I went through so much with the Boston fiasco. I sucked up every ounce of everyones time and energy to be there, and then I felt horribly guilty when it didn’t go as planned. I hated myself for giving up so early. I was flooded with emotion from thinking about the trauma/PTSD (it’s a program specifically for those with trauma, so I should have known better…) – stuff that I typically manage to keep at arms length. My dad also met me out there for a few days, which was the first time I had seen him in a few years, and it was rocky at best.

The whole thing was nothing less than a shit-show, honestly. So I crashed when I came home. It was the crash that you can completely see coming but are powerless to stop. It happened in slow motion, yet so quick.

I went to my appointment with Dr. P last Monday and I told him I was at a low. But what’s new lately? I’ve been in crisis mode since December, so it wasn’t anything that either of us weren’t used to. He didn’t really know what to do about it, other than suggesting another inpatient stay. I didn’t know what to do about it, either, but I was so tired of having nothing work that the idea of another inpatient stay felt useless to me. There were no beds available, anyway. (Fact: There’s never any beds available.) We argued over the disclosure of my suicide method for awhile (him telling me that if I didn’t, I was going to the ER, and they would hold me there until they found a bed somewhere else, which could possibly take days), I finally gave up my plan, we settled on a phone check-up for Wednesday, he asked me if I would drive home safely, I said yes, I walked out of his office.

On my way home I asked Tom if I should maybe stay in a hotel for a few nights and make my appointment on Wednesday an in-person one. I told him I didn’t feel safe going home. He called Dr. P, who told him I needed to stick with my plan of driving home safely, and if I didn’t feel safe at home, to give Tom the pills I was planning to overdose with. I of course turned around and emailed Dr. P my reasoning for wanting to stay in a hotel, explaining there was no way in hell I’d hand my pills over. About 5 minutes out from being home, I finally got a reply to my email that said I should stay somewhere if I felt it would keep me safe. Too late.

I got home and, other than telling Tom to go play video games so I could read, don’t remember much. I do vividly remember gathering my entire stash of Ativan, counting them, contemplating, and then tossing them all back into my mouth like tic-tacs. I gagged on them for a bit, but when I finally stopped I washed them down with some vodka. I gave it 5 minutes, didn’t feel any different, so I went and drank more vodka. Another 5 minutes. More vodka. I finally decided to read and hope it would all kick in.

And it did.

From that point until mid-day Wednesday, I have very little memory. According to Tom, he came upstairs to find me passed out. He smelled the alcohol on my breath, asked me what I did. Eventually I told him I took pills. He called 911, I walked to the ambulance. I have a brief memory of being in the ambulance, but it almost feels like a memory of watching myself and not of actually being there. I don’t remember anything from Tuesday, although I’m told I woke up intermittently to ask where my phone was. I was also seen by the county human services, who placed me on a 72 hour hold after I apparently told them I wouldn’t go to an inpatient facility voluntarily.

When I finally came to on Wednesday morning, I ended up throwing a cup of soda on Tom and Ella when they were visiting, ripped my IV out, attempted to leave the hospital, hit security, and demanded to be taken somewhere besides the place I was going. I was escorted, in handcuffs, by two cops to a psych ward an hour away.

If you ever picture a psych ward, the one I went to is what you’d picture. The patients were all vegetables, the nurses were just there for crowd control, and the doctors wrote prescriptions for whatever would keep everyone sedated enough to do as they were told. Most of the patients wore the hospital-issued scrubs that were provided, and there was little to do other than work on a puzzle, watch one community TV, or stare at a wall.

As if all of this wasn’t enough, I also managed to land myself in the seclusion room for close to 2 hours.

I don’t think I want to go into details, because it’s probably the lowest point of my life. But it happened, and I’m not sure I’ll ever actually get over it. I’m not sure I can scrape up all of the dignity that got left behind on that lone mattress in the middle of the room. I don’t think I can un-see the four tiled walls, the tiny window in the locked door with the nurse staring in at me. I can’t un-cry the tears, I can’t rid myself of the humiliation.

In that moment, I decided that whatever “trauma” I’ve experienced in the past would be welcome in comparison to living the hell that was that room.

I was on the brink of losing it again when I was finally released yesterday. Even the discharge was infuriating and I’ve never been so happy to walk out of a building.

I spent the 2nd half of my day with Tom and the kids, trying to soak in as much as I possibly could while also getting ready to leave again.

Under the urging of both my parents and Tom, I’m currently in Dr. P’s neck of the woods getting intensive day treatment while staying at a hotel. I’m 3.5 hours away from my kids and family – more life stolen from me.

I’d like to think the only direction is up, but I’m not sure I believe that anymore. I’m still here, though, and I think I need to be here for my kids, so I’m trying.

Fear of the Unknown

I’ve officially made it to Boston and all I can think is what the hell am I doing?

My rental car experience was even worse than I had anticipated. I was worried about the actual driving part, but getting the car ended up being just as much of a fiasco. The fact that, on top of the daily rate, they charge $350 to your card for…who the hell knows…is absolutely insane to me. And the place I originally booked the car with didn’t accept debit cards, so I had to call Hotwire and beg them to refund my non-refundable reservation so that I could rent a car with a different rental company. And we still had to get enough available in our account to cover that hold.

And I have to come up with another “deposit” in two days, which will be before this one gets refunded. We just don’t have $700 right now. It’s a nightmare.

I finally got my car after over an hour, and the second I left the parking spot I was already lost and confused. I couldn’t find the exit to the garage, then I passed it, then I went down a one-way aisle. Once I made it out of the parking garage, I got lost trying to exit the airport area. I almost got hit/hit someone no less than 4 times, and traffic was pretty backed up.

But I made it to the hotel and checked in and let out of a giant sigh of relief until I mustered up the courage to venture out again for some food and a trip to Target. Luckily that trip wasn’t nearly as awful.

I’m checking into the program around 9am tomorrow and I’m ridiculously anxious about it. This is the part I hate and struggle with – the walking into the unknown. I don’t know what to expect. I’m fearful that it won’t be what I had hoped it would be, and I’ll be faced with the question of whether I should just cut my losses and go home. I’m afraid I’ll have a roommate  that I hate. I’m afraid the other patients will be a bunch of addicts that I have nothing in common with. I’m afraid I won’t get enough out of the program to say it was worth the hassle that I put everyone through. I’m afraid I’ll hate the (all female) staff. I’m afraid I won’t see Dr. A as much as I’d like to. I’m afraid of how much I’m going to miss my kids (I would already do anything to kiss their little faces). I’m afraid that Tom is going to get too overwhelmed being a single-dad to three kids and end up resenting me.

There’s too much unknown, and I’m afraid.

At the very least, I’m looking forward to my dad coming in on Sunday. It’ll be nice to have a familiar face around, and I haven’t seen him in probably two years. I could use some company – it’s so lonely in this sea of people.

Dr. P keeps telling me “one thing in the moment” which I realize is the exact opposite of what I’m currently doing. I think I’ll just pass out and solve the problem that way.