I feel this often. Too often. More often than I'd like to admit. I'm a grown woman and I should be confident during this time in my life, only to feel the opposite instead. I should feel nothing but faith and assertiveness, but instead, I slither away from confrontation. I experience sadness while approaching these feelings that permeate throughout my body and my mind; throughout my soul. I can't seem to shake them, so as a result, I let them overcome my thoughts and my heart.
As the butterflies continue to flutter inside of me, I want to step outside of my body and take control; complete control of all of it. My entire life, my friends, my family, everyone surrounding me with whom I show a great deal of love for. Not to alienate them from my life completely, but to stand proud for those who have graced my affection and will only continue to do so.
So why would I feel insecure about these relationships? Why can't I just accept them as they are without the constant reassurance that everything will be OK? One word—insecurity.
The people who I have chosen to remain in my life are very special to me, therefore removing them now would be a mistake, if not a sad one. Although there are times where removing a friend or loved one from my life will seem like the right thing to do at that moment in time, I know in the future I will be filled with regret, only convincing myself that life is short. If it is in fact, short, I sometimes ask myself why continue on when I may believe something or someone may not be the proper fit for me which will have the advantage of gracing the presence of my life.
Most of the time I feel frustration, but don't we all? This is a common question we sometimes ask ourselves, but what is the answer? Is it as simple as removing that someone or something without further despair? I've always been the type of person who cares very deeply for the people in my life, especially friends. My friends mean a great deal to me, so when I feel as though I've been wronged in any way, I simply remove them from my life and move forward, without the uneasiness of looking back. However, certain friends have remained in my life regardless of their involvement and how they treat me. I know removing them from my life is the best thing to do, if only for my sanity and my future, but I can't, I just can't. I know it will only hurt and know I will constantly be filled with regret.
But for my future and my sanity? I know in my heart, it will be for the best. As they say, time heals all wounds. Doing it now will empower me.
My insecurity has only become the best of me, thus causing me to walk around in a cold daze. I know deep down that this is not healthy, and I need to rise above it and enable the invulnerability in my life and my mind. In this case, I know that confidence is of great magnitude.
As I am broached with a tough decision, I know whatever decision I make will be the right solution for me, and everyone around me. It can no longer affect my family like it has done for the past year or so. A thought that has rummaged through my mind for a long time coming, but I never had the courage to do so. I am weak, and I am not strong enough to make that one important step, so until then, I will continue to suffer and wonder, what if?
Like my entire life, insecurity has delegated my decision-making, and not for the good, but for the bad only. A negative that will continue to destroy my life until I take a stand in order to enrich it. Although I have tried many times, I always backed down, only to regret my weakness instead. Regret my cowardliness.
I need help, and I need guidance, and I need it now. If I only knew how.
Bipolar by Design
Showing posts with label friend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friend. Show all posts
Monday, December 3, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
The Sadness of Loneliness
Have you ever felt lonely as a result of your bipolar disorder? To be honest, I would find that hard to believe if the answer was "no." I know for most people who suffer from this illness, that feeling of loneliness and sadness is just a common part of what we struggle through on a daily basis. At least it does for me.
I always wonder, speaking from someone like myself who is very outgoing and typically very social, how can a person overcome this? Medication? For me, that is definitely the correct answer. Ever since my daughter's soccer season this past spring, I have realized how being social and friendly was not something I wanted to do, nor did I do. As a result, I stayed away and slithered into my lonely space at home where it was a safe environment for me, where I didn't have to put on that facade that I have grown accustomed to for the past year. It was tough for me and I wanted to constantly crawl in bed and sleep, but since I've never been the type of person to sleep all day, I quickly pulled myself out of this slump and tried my hardest to continue forward, even though it was a continuous effort.
Since being like this was the antithesis of my normal behavior, I truly didn't know how to react or even respond to these actions. As you could imagine, It was a tough transition. What came next for me? How could I get out of this slump? It seemed to be the same question I was asking myself on a daily basis. But when your mind is in a dark hole everyday, you can't think logically, but as a self-loathing emotionless human being instead, but you know it's only at that time as you're suffering.
When I first came back from visiting my parents last summer, and seeing my father struggle after receiving chemotherapy, it felt like my world was shattering right before my eyes. I know it wasn't, that much was apparent to me, but in my mind I felt as though everything was crumbling down like a house of cards. I felt as though I had no control, and for the most part, considering these particular situations, I didn't have control, but I was also aware that in most normal situations, I would have handled it much better than I did. With the exception of my father's illness, of course.
Once I saw my father, I felt as though he'd be OK, yes he was walking slower and he was definitely a lot weaker than he normally was, but still the same strong man I had known since childhood. His strong deep voice that always made me shake when he yelled at me as a child—even as an adult had still made me shutter. For the first time in my life, I liked it and never thought I would desire it, but once I heard his voice and his strength, I believed he was OK. And at that time, he was.
But loneliness is different, after seeing my father, I was broken. I knew my husband wouldn't understand nor would he accept my crawling into a quiet space and demand to be alone, so I hid it the entire time, which was the most difficult emotion I had ever had to overcome, but it didn't last. That was just my husband's way. As I look back now, I'm so very grateful of how he 'forced' me to try and adjust to these new emotions as a way to move forward and try to get better, but at that time, we had no idea it was my bipolar disorder crawling back into my life once again.
Until the following November where it all changed.
Several visits to the emergency room changed all of that. I didn't want to be there, nor did I want to be alone, but knew I had to be. My husband and daughter were there for me every step of the way, but mostly, I didn't want them there, I only wanted to sink into my dark abyss that I have grown so accustomed to instead. I wanted to be alone.
Several months later as I look back, I know that wasn't me and I do know that my bipolar disorder had wriggled its way back into my psyche—once again—and changed all of that. I look back and realized with great anticipation that regular visits to my therapist and my medication was a necessity, not an option and will most likely be a regular occurrence for the rest of my life. Maybe a decrease of visits to my therapist, but daily, the medication will always be there for me.
I'm better, a lot better, and I'm a lot more social once again, and I love it. I love being with my friends and I love socializing with them as I frequently laugh and smile—just like the old days.
Thank you Latuda and Tripletal, you've made a huge difference in my life.
Friday, November 16, 2012
A Unique Friendship
I am writing this post that is meant for a dear friend of mine, someone whom I have never met, but someone that means a great deal to me, regardless. He just happened to come upon this blog, so for that, I am dedicating this post solely to him. When he found it, it upset me because I was concerned that he would read the intimate details that for many months, I have projected here, and in turn, he would judge me. But I know he won't, and I know even if he did read it—even though he has promised not to—he will accept that it's who I am and continue to be my friend regardless.
So this is for you, M/M. I hope you like it.
Because we have never met, and because we "met" simply by playing a popular video game, we just happen to hit it off from the very beginning. It started out slow, like any friendship would, but then it grew into something very special. A friendship that we both call(ed) 'weird'—for reasons that I will not divulge here, because the two of us will always keep that secret between us, and between us only—a special friendship nevertheless.
As the year grew, and as we embark on our two year 'anniversary' of our friendship, it has grown to become strong for both of us. As we communicate every single day, whether it's via text, phone or mumble (a popular gaming audio program), we still find a way to say hello and move it forward with the details of our lives at that current time. Because I love speaking with him and hearing about his life and how he's doing, I don't ever want it to end. I always want to make sure he's OK with the elements of his life.
I have to know he's there. It's just how I am. And with never having the luxury of seeing him face-to-face, I enjoy that comfort of our deep friendship in my life. Sometimes I question if he feels the same way, but I know our communication also means a great deal to him as he initiates the contact as much as I do with him. It's just what we do.
I've told him my life, and shared deep secrets with what I have endured this past year, details that I have never trusted with anyone else before—aside from my husband, my 'real life' friends will never learn of these recent horrors in my life; the sentence I have endured for the past year and a half. After everything I have confided in him, he has never judged me—even though I always thought he would. Maybe our lack of meeting in-person makes that easier for both of us, a computer or cell phone blocking our contact, I'm not sure, but he has proven to me by listening to my plight and the dark abyss where I have fallen many times, that he will continue to place his friendship onto me that nobody ever would in a real life scenario. Sometimes I forget that we have never met, and someone whom I've never had the luxury to cry on his shoulder or hug him while I mourned the recent death of my father.
I made the mistake of judging him once, a mistake that was devastating to his wife, and surprisingly, to me. Although this mistake never affected me personally, in my heart, it did. I will always regret the selfish behavior that I have created because for 3 weeks, I thought I lost his friendship forever. After reaching out to him, he forgave me, for reasons I'll never understand till this day, because he exonerated me of the vile words I spoke upon him as a selfish friend, because instead of supporting him—regardless of how I disapproved—I judged him instead. I should have been there for him as a friend, like he is always for me, but I wasn't. That is a distant memory now, and after more than a year later, we have grown even closer than that day over a year ago, and we both know that will always remain so. If only on my end.
There have been numerous times where I have taken my bipolar disorder out on him, and like the friend that he is, has never walked away from our friendship, or even judged me for it like most people would. He knows when I'm having—as he calls it—a "bipolar day," and still, after how I've treated him, over and over again, he never once judged me or walked away. He's special to me, and for that, I'll never let his friendship go and I'll never walk away from him again, like I did before.
Although I sometimes state otherwise, I won't. I hope he knows that I never will in spite of everything we've endured with our friendship.
In turn, as he is going through a rough time in his life, I try to be there for him, like he has for me, as a friend. I know that if someday, if he reunites with his family, or even if he falls in love with someone else, I will have to accept that our friendship could possibly diminish, if not completely end of our daily communication. I know that this could be a possibility that will only sadden me a great deal, but I'll understand, even if I may not agree with the likelihood of the inevitable lack of contact. I'll know and I'll understand why. It's real life, and I am not a part of that real life, but only a virtual one instead.
As our friendship continues to flourish, I daydream about the inevitable possibility that we will one day meet in person. Something that I know will come to fruition, but the question is not if we will meet, but when and how. Money is tight for both of us at this current time, therefore it's just not possible for either of us, which is fine. As I continue to accept that we cannot sit down and have a beer together, or cry on each other's shoulder, or even laugh like we do on the phone, I'll have to accept that as a friendship, it's still there. Whether or not I am unable to look into his eyes and see deep down into his soul, but to hear his voice and the laughter that frequently comes with it instead. For now, that'll make me happy, as long as we will remain friends and he will continue to be my confidante, I'll be elated.
You're very special to me, and I want you to know that you are forever in my heart as an unusual, but remarkable friend, and I hope we will continue our unique friendship for the future to come.
I love you, M/M
xoxo...
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
So this is for you, M/M. I hope you like it.
Because we have never met, and because we "met" simply by playing a popular video game, we just happen to hit it off from the very beginning. It started out slow, like any friendship would, but then it grew into something very special. A friendship that we both call(ed) 'weird'—for reasons that I will not divulge here, because the two of us will always keep that secret between us, and between us only—a special friendship nevertheless.
As the year grew, and as we embark on our two year 'anniversary' of our friendship, it has grown to become strong for both of us. As we communicate every single day, whether it's via text, phone or mumble (a popular gaming audio program), we still find a way to say hello and move it forward with the details of our lives at that current time. Because I love speaking with him and hearing about his life and how he's doing, I don't ever want it to end. I always want to make sure he's OK with the elements of his life.
I have to know he's there. It's just how I am. And with never having the luxury of seeing him face-to-face, I enjoy that comfort of our deep friendship in my life. Sometimes I question if he feels the same way, but I know our communication also means a great deal to him as he initiates the contact as much as I do with him. It's just what we do.
I've told him my life, and shared deep secrets with what I have endured this past year, details that I have never trusted with anyone else before—aside from my husband, my 'real life' friends will never learn of these recent horrors in my life; the sentence I have endured for the past year and a half. After everything I have confided in him, he has never judged me—even though I always thought he would. Maybe our lack of meeting in-person makes that easier for both of us, a computer or cell phone blocking our contact, I'm not sure, but he has proven to me by listening to my plight and the dark abyss where I have fallen many times, that he will continue to place his friendship onto me that nobody ever would in a real life scenario. Sometimes I forget that we have never met, and someone whom I've never had the luxury to cry on his shoulder or hug him while I mourned the recent death of my father.
I made the mistake of judging him once, a mistake that was devastating to his wife, and surprisingly, to me. Although this mistake never affected me personally, in my heart, it did. I will always regret the selfish behavior that I have created because for 3 weeks, I thought I lost his friendship forever. After reaching out to him, he forgave me, for reasons I'll never understand till this day, because he exonerated me of the vile words I spoke upon him as a selfish friend, because instead of supporting him—regardless of how I disapproved—I judged him instead. I should have been there for him as a friend, like he is always for me, but I wasn't. That is a distant memory now, and after more than a year later, we have grown even closer than that day over a year ago, and we both know that will always remain so. If only on my end.
There have been numerous times where I have taken my bipolar disorder out on him, and like the friend that he is, has never walked away from our friendship, or even judged me for it like most people would. He knows when I'm having—as he calls it—a "bipolar day," and still, after how I've treated him, over and over again, he never once judged me or walked away. He's special to me, and for that, I'll never let his friendship go and I'll never walk away from him again, like I did before.
Although I sometimes state otherwise, I won't. I hope he knows that I never will in spite of everything we've endured with our friendship.
In turn, as he is going through a rough time in his life, I try to be there for him, like he has for me, as a friend. I know that if someday, if he reunites with his family, or even if he falls in love with someone else, I will have to accept that our friendship could possibly diminish, if not completely end of our daily communication. I know that this could be a possibility that will only sadden me a great deal, but I'll understand, even if I may not agree with the likelihood of the inevitable lack of contact. I'll know and I'll understand why. It's real life, and I am not a part of that real life, but only a virtual one instead.
As our friendship continues to flourish, I daydream about the inevitable possibility that we will one day meet in person. Something that I know will come to fruition, but the question is not if we will meet, but when and how. Money is tight for both of us at this current time, therefore it's just not possible for either of us, which is fine. As I continue to accept that we cannot sit down and have a beer together, or cry on each other's shoulder, or even laugh like we do on the phone, I'll have to accept that as a friendship, it's still there. Whether or not I am unable to look into his eyes and see deep down into his soul, but to hear his voice and the laughter that frequently comes with it instead. For now, that'll make me happy, as long as we will remain friends and he will continue to be my confidante, I'll be elated.
You're very special to me, and I want you to know that you are forever in my heart as an unusual, but remarkable friend, and I hope we will continue our unique friendship for the future to come.
I love you, M/M
xoxo...
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
The Hospital.
As I sit here listening to the calmness of classical music, I feel I'm ready to discuss my recent 'visit' to the hospital—the psychiatric hospital. I only hope that opening up about this will help others, maybe help them when they're desperate and cry for outside help from family. Family can only do so much when you're that low, when you've hit rock bottom. But sometimes we need more than that, on a professional level.
It was early December and by that point I wasn't on my medication yet, I hadn't been seeing a therapist so considering I was 'raw' during that time in my life, was a challenge. Even though I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2004, I never thought it would come back. I know that sounds naive and ignorant of me, but in my mind and my heart, I had hoped it would "go away."
It didn't. It came back full force.
I wasn't back on the medication (from 2004) because in 2006, I felt great. Always in a good mood and my normal self and smiling, always laughing and smiling. It was a huge transition for me and at that time, my husband was in the middle of changing jobs, so for 3 long months, we had to go without health insurance. It was tough, but we managed. Regardless, trying to pay for my medication out of pocket would have cost us over $300+ per month. Well, I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that many people could afford that during tough economic times—even back then. Maybe some could, but for us, at that time—especially while my husband was in the middle of changing jobs/employer—it wasn't possible, and since I was feeling 'good,' we felt it wasn't necessary.
Until the past year when my world started to come tumbling down. We thought it might be situational—with my dad's cancer, our finances turning to shit, my brother completely ostracizing himself from our family and of course my close friends.
As it progressively got worse, we realized it wasn't situational—my dad was getting better (at that time), my brother and I had a good relationship, and although our finances weren't improving much, overall they still weren't THAT bad. Then after 3 weeks of my friend and I having our "timeout" (as he calls it), we became friends again. I loved it, talking with him again, sharing our most intimate secrets felt good—at least at that time.
(At this point, I have now switched to Madonna's Ray of Light album as I needed some music a little more upbeat)
As the months passed, it had gotten so bad that I couldn't stop crying. Crying so loud and so hard that it brought me into the brink of a crying depressed stupor. It scared my daughter to the point that out of desperation, she would call my husband at work and insist that he come home immediately, as she herself was crying so hard, that my husband would race home to make sure I was alright. They were both scared for my safety. Unfortunately, this had become a common sequence in our household. Seeing me so upset and so depressed had become a common nightly 'ritual.'
By December, we all knew I had reached rock bottom. They could no longer help me. It had to be taken to a new level; a professional level. One night as my husband was racing home to assist me—again—he looked at me and asked me point blank, if I wanted to be taken to the emergency room. It was then that I knew it was serious and I was ready to admit that I had a problem; even I couldn't take it any longer. I simply replied "yes."
It was time.
Once I was there—for over 2+ hours—they did nothing. Sent me on my way with a packet of what they thought was proper literature to help during my depression. Only to be repeated a few weeks later.
Again, on my way home after 2+ hours of sitting and patiently waiting in the waiting room—all while I was sitting there still depressed and crying—taken back to a room with what they thought was a calming environment with tacky puke-like light green paint on the walls, with an armed guard sitting only a few feet away from me. I guess they thought I'd turn to violence—and perhaps that's a common reaction of the majority of patients who are admitted as 'psychiatric patients.' It's a humiliating experience, I assure you. Nevertheless, we felt it was necessary.
And again, my desperation and cry for help only turned to disappointment as I was released and on my way home with a packet filled with literature and brochures. On either occasion, I never took them out of the envelope, even though it was recommended by the emergency room physician. I don't want to sit there reading bullshit brochures and literature, I just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because at that time, that moment, I had contemplated suicide, but thankfully never did anything about it, nor did my thoughts go further than that moment in time. A moment in which I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I just wanted the pain to end.
Towards the end of December, we went back for a third visit to the emergency room. Not only was my husband insistent that something be done immediately, I agreed and was just as persistent as he was. As my poor scared daughter sat alone in the waiting area, we knew that something needed to happen beyond the ER—a drastic solution. I hated every minute of it, but as we both looked at each other, with the doctor standing there watching us, watching our response, we decided the best treatment for me at that time was to voluntarily admit myself to the in-patient psychiatric hospital.
One of the most difficult decisions to make in anybody's lifetime. Sometimes you just have to sit back and peruse what the best option is for you, and for us and me at that time, was willingly admit myself to this facility.
We waited for another hour before I was escorted and driven by a security guard in a locked, 'secure' vehicle. I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner in my own clothing wanting to get well. It had to be done. So I went along with a vengeance because I was hoping and praying that I would get the help I desperately needed.
Upon arrival to the hospital at 11 p.m. at night, I was starving. I hadn't eaten a thing all day, so to have a hot meal delivered to me that evening as I arrived, was nothing short of heaven. I immediately thought to myself what a hospitable facility this was. It couldn't be so bad—could it?
Boy, was I wrong.
As I went through a series of body searches, removal of my jewelry and physical exams, I kept thinking to myself, I'm not crazy, why must I endure this? I'm here on my own accord. Shouldn't I be welcome with open arms and treated like a queen? Ha. No.
They didn't see it that way, because this was protocol for them. They didn't care that I came from an upper middle-class background, or that I had a college educaton. I was there as an equal, just like the other patients.
It was a humiliating and humbling experience, let me assure you. But I kept trying to convince myself that it was for the best. I would get better. Miraculously healed.
Bullshit.
The next day I sat through what felt like endless group sessions. Eating lunch in surgical scrubs by myself with plastic utensils, was a lonely experience—even though I wasn't hungry, they made it quite clear that I had to eat at a certain time or I would lose the privilege until dinner time.
Ugh.
As I continued to eat their hideous over-starched quintessential hospital food, I headed towards another grueling group therapy session. Did they help? Not for me. But sitting there listening to everyone's story, everyone's plight and how they got there was nothing short of heart wrenching. All I kept saying to myself while listening to their story was, "I don't belong here. I am literally wasting money being here."
I fooled the psychiatrist. I made them think it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be there.
Guess what? It worked. He released me that day. I couldn't take another minute of the usual escort to take a shower and to go to the bathroom. I felt like a child.
Was it wrong of me to "fool" the psychiatrist? Of course it was, but I felt I wasn't getting the help or the medication that I needed. To them, I was simply a nameless patient. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure I am over exaggerating here, but at that time, it was real to me. It was what I felt and thought.
The only person that helped me throughout my short stay was my counselor—whom I didn't speak with until my discharge. He actually showed me he cared. Actually tried to help me with my discharge and my treatment. He gave me a list of several therapists and psychologists that I could call. We both realized what I needed was a therapist, not medication alone—which I must mention that no additional medication was prescribed by the hospital psychiatrist. My initial medications were prescribed by my internist, not a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse. Clearly, and admittedly, he was out of his realm of expertise, but wanted to help me nonetheless.
After receiving my list of therapists, I immediately made that call the following week—OK, not immediately but soon enough. I admit, I was sitting on it for a few days. I just didn't have the energy to call, even though I knew in the back of my mind that it needed to be done. Thankfully my husband was there to continually push me.
As I made the appointment with a therapist, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit from the first therapist I chose. Therapists are like a marriage—it has to be the right fit in order for it to work and succeed.
I have been seeing her since March and so far, I'm very happy with the results. I may get into that for another time, but for now, just know that our sessions have been helpful to me.
In the meantime, she hooked me up with a psychiatric nurse to monitor and prescribe new medications. It was a trial and error sort of thing, but we now know what works for me and so far—knock on wood—have been a godsend.
In summary, after my stay at the psychiatric facility—even though during my stay I felt it was a waste of time—I realized afterwards that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to 'save' my sanity—no pun intended.
If you're not seeing a therapist, make the appointment immediately! Medication can only be helpful if you're regularly seeing a therapist side-by-side with your meds. Trust me! We're human, we need to talk it out and to talk to a professional with unbaised opinions, and it works!!!
Good luck!
Bipolar Gal on Twitter
It was early December and by that point I wasn't on my medication yet, I hadn't been seeing a therapist so considering I was 'raw' during that time in my life, was a challenge. Even though I had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2004, I never thought it would come back. I know that sounds naive and ignorant of me, but in my mind and my heart, I had hoped it would "go away."
It didn't. It came back full force.
I wasn't back on the medication (from 2004) because in 2006, I felt great. Always in a good mood and my normal self and smiling, always laughing and smiling. It was a huge transition for me and at that time, my husband was in the middle of changing jobs, so for 3 long months, we had to go without health insurance. It was tough, but we managed. Regardless, trying to pay for my medication out of pocket would have cost us over $300+ per month. Well, I don't know about you, but I can't imagine that many people could afford that during tough economic times—even back then. Maybe some could, but for us, at that time—especially while my husband was in the middle of changing jobs/employer—it wasn't possible, and since I was feeling 'good,' we felt it wasn't necessary.
Until the past year when my world started to come tumbling down. We thought it might be situational—with my dad's cancer, our finances turning to shit, my brother completely ostracizing himself from our family and of course my close friends.
As it progressively got worse, we realized it wasn't situational—my dad was getting better (at that time), my brother and I had a good relationship, and although our finances weren't improving much, overall they still weren't THAT bad. Then after 3 weeks of my friend and I having our "timeout" (as he calls it), we became friends again. I loved it, talking with him again, sharing our most intimate secrets felt good—at least at that time.
(At this point, I have now switched to Madonna's Ray of Light album as I needed some music a little more upbeat)
As the months passed, it had gotten so bad that I couldn't stop crying. Crying so loud and so hard that it brought me into the brink of a crying depressed stupor. It scared my daughter to the point that out of desperation, she would call my husband at work and insist that he come home immediately, as she herself was crying so hard, that my husband would race home to make sure I was alright. They were both scared for my safety. Unfortunately, this had become a common sequence in our household. Seeing me so upset and so depressed had become a common nightly 'ritual.'
By December, we all knew I had reached rock bottom. They could no longer help me. It had to be taken to a new level; a professional level. One night as my husband was racing home to assist me—again—he looked at me and asked me point blank, if I wanted to be taken to the emergency room. It was then that I knew it was serious and I was ready to admit that I had a problem; even I couldn't take it any longer. I simply replied "yes."
It was time.
Once I was there—for over 2+ hours—they did nothing. Sent me on my way with a packet of what they thought was proper literature to help during my depression. Only to be repeated a few weeks later.
Again, on my way home after 2+ hours of sitting and patiently waiting in the waiting room—all while I was sitting there still depressed and crying—taken back to a room with what they thought was a calming environment with tacky puke-like light green paint on the walls, with an armed guard sitting only a few feet away from me. I guess they thought I'd turn to violence—and perhaps that's a common reaction of the majority of patients who are admitted as 'psychiatric patients.' It's a humiliating experience, I assure you. Nevertheless, we felt it was necessary.
And again, my desperation and cry for help only turned to disappointment as I was released and on my way home with a packet filled with literature and brochures. On either occasion, I never took them out of the envelope, even though it was recommended by the emergency room physician. I don't want to sit there reading bullshit brochures and literature, I just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because at that time, that moment, I had contemplated suicide, but thankfully never did anything about it, nor did my thoughts go further than that moment in time. A moment in which I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I just wanted the pain to end.
Towards the end of December, we went back for a third visit to the emergency room. Not only was my husband insistent that something be done immediately, I agreed and was just as persistent as he was. As my poor scared daughter sat alone in the waiting area, we knew that something needed to happen beyond the ER—a drastic solution. I hated every minute of it, but as we both looked at each other, with the doctor standing there watching us, watching our response, we decided the best treatment for me at that time was to voluntarily admit myself to the in-patient psychiatric hospital.
One of the most difficult decisions to make in anybody's lifetime. Sometimes you just have to sit back and peruse what the best option is for you, and for us and me at that time, was willingly admit myself to this facility.
We waited for another hour before I was escorted and driven by a security guard in a locked, 'secure' vehicle. I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner in my own clothing wanting to get well. It had to be done. So I went along with a vengeance because I was hoping and praying that I would get the help I desperately needed.
Upon arrival to the hospital at 11 p.m. at night, I was starving. I hadn't eaten a thing all day, so to have a hot meal delivered to me that evening as I arrived, was nothing short of heaven. I immediately thought to myself what a hospitable facility this was. It couldn't be so bad—could it?
Boy, was I wrong.
As I went through a series of body searches, removal of my jewelry and physical exams, I kept thinking to myself, I'm not crazy, why must I endure this? I'm here on my own accord. Shouldn't I be welcome with open arms and treated like a queen? Ha. No.
They didn't see it that way, because this was protocol for them. They didn't care that I came from an upper middle-class background, or that I had a college educaton. I was there as an equal, just like the other patients.
It was a humiliating and humbling experience, let me assure you. But I kept trying to convince myself that it was for the best. I would get better. Miraculously healed.
Bullshit.
The next day I sat through what felt like endless group sessions. Eating lunch in surgical scrubs by myself with plastic utensils, was a lonely experience—even though I wasn't hungry, they made it quite clear that I had to eat at a certain time or I would lose the privilege until dinner time.
Ugh.
As I continued to eat their hideous over-starched quintessential hospital food, I headed towards another grueling group therapy session. Did they help? Not for me. But sitting there listening to everyone's story, everyone's plight and how they got there was nothing short of heart wrenching. All I kept saying to myself while listening to their story was, "I don't belong here. I am literally wasting money being here."
I fooled the psychiatrist. I made them think it was all a mistake, that I shouldn't be there.
Guess what? It worked. He released me that day. I couldn't take another minute of the usual escort to take a shower and to go to the bathroom. I felt like a child.
Was it wrong of me to "fool" the psychiatrist? Of course it was, but I felt I wasn't getting the help or the medication that I needed. To them, I was simply a nameless patient. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sure I am over exaggerating here, but at that time, it was real to me. It was what I felt and thought.
The only person that helped me throughout my short stay was my counselor—whom I didn't speak with until my discharge. He actually showed me he cared. Actually tried to help me with my discharge and my treatment. He gave me a list of several therapists and psychologists that I could call. We both realized what I needed was a therapist, not medication alone—which I must mention that no additional medication was prescribed by the hospital psychiatrist. My initial medications were prescribed by my internist, not a psychiatrist or psychiatric nurse. Clearly, and admittedly, he was out of his realm of expertise, but wanted to help me nonetheless.
After receiving my list of therapists, I immediately made that call the following week—OK, not immediately but soon enough. I admit, I was sitting on it for a few days. I just didn't have the energy to call, even though I knew in the back of my mind that it needed to be done. Thankfully my husband was there to continually push me.
As I made the appointment with a therapist, I was lucky enough to find the perfect fit from the first therapist I chose. Therapists are like a marriage—it has to be the right fit in order for it to work and succeed.
I have been seeing her since March and so far, I'm very happy with the results. I may get into that for another time, but for now, just know that our sessions have been helpful to me.
In the meantime, she hooked me up with a psychiatric nurse to monitor and prescribe new medications. It was a trial and error sort of thing, but we now know what works for me and so far—knock on wood—have been a godsend.
In summary, after my stay at the psychiatric facility—even though during my stay I felt it was a waste of time—I realized afterwards that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to 'save' my sanity—no pun intended.
If you're not seeing a therapist, make the appointment immediately! Medication can only be helpful if you're regularly seeing a therapist side-by-side with your meds. Trust me! We're human, we need to talk it out and to talk to a professional with unbaised opinions, and it works!!!
Good luck!
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