Sunday, November 19, 2006

Post #1: How it All Began

Posted by Lara at 3:25 PM
[Here begins the promised post series about my recent misadventures. There will be seven posts in total, and I encourage any and all feedback, thoughts, suggestions, or general comments you have.]

I was trying to think of an easy way to introduce the topic of where I had disappeared to since Iggy's obituary, and found myself thwarted at every turn. But then I read this Mocha post, and it gave me the perfect opening:

You wouldn't know by just looking at me, but I just spent a week in the hospital psych ward.

Big news, I know. Surprising news? Probably not so much. For one thing, many of you out there reading this already knew, and, in fact, even came to see me. But even those of you finding out for the first time had a lot of warning. For all that I've lived through some serious stuff, I just was not handling recent events well at all. I was cutting again - something I've struggled with for years - and it was getting really out of hand. And for the last few days leading up to my hospitalization, things had gotten drastically worse

When things first started almost a month ago, my emotions were all over the place. I was crazy upset, but I still had moments where I could laugh and feel mostly normal. And in the midst of the up-and-down roller coaster of emotions, I was relying on my friends for support.


But then the roller coaster stopped. The good moments went away, and even the bad moments became infrequent. Mostly there was just... nothing. I just felt numb. Unless I was in a sobbing fit of absolute despair and hopelessness, I pretty much didn't care about anything at all. And worst of all, I stopped talking to just about all my friends and family.

It's strange for me to remember now, that complete and utter lack of emotion. It's just so unlike me, to genuinely feel nothing - to genuinely not care about anything. I was in that state for most of that weekend and the early part of the week. And that was the state I was in Wednesday night.

Not too long after mourning Iggy's death (no, that's not what pushed me over the edge, sad though I was), I found myself curled in a ball, sobbing. J. came in to ask if there was anything he could do, but I pretty much told him to go away and leave me alone. He did, and I eventually stopped crying and found myself back in the numb, fog-like state in which I often found myself in those days. And in that state, I began to consider suicide.

It's hard to explain the confused jumble of thoughts I experienced in those two hours - yes, I pretty much just thought about life, death, and the options each presented for close to two hours. First in my room, lying in bed staring at the wall. Then standing in the bathroom staring at myself in the mirror holding the bottle of pills (left over from my last ER visit). Then finally sitting back in my bed, this time looking back and forth between the pile of pills I'd poured into my right hand and the glass of water in my left.

When the doctors asked me later if I'd been trying to kill myself when I took the pills, I told them, "Not as such," or, "It wasn't as explicit as that." And those answers are true. I really didn't take the pills so that I would die. I knew it was possible, but I deemed it a low risk. I mostly just didn't care either way anymore, so with sort of a morbid (and completely irrational) curiosity, I took the pills just to see what would happen.

It didn't take long for fear to kick in and me to decide I didn't *actually* want to wait it out and "see what would happen." I went to J., who was watching TV in the office. He could tell by my sort of stricken and scared face that something was up.

J: What's wrong?

Me: Um...

J: Tell me - what is it?

Me: Um... Hypothetically speaking, how many of my anti-nausea pills do you think I could take and still be okay?

J: ...

I have no idea. How many did you take?

So I told him, and he called Poison Control to ask for advice. They said there could be some "serious side effects," and he should get me to an ER. So, almost exactly a month later, we headed back to the ER.

Initial burst of fear aside, I actually still didn't care much about what was happening. I sort of stared blankly out the window in silence the whole car ride there, then responded with one- or two-word answers to almost everything I was asked in the ER. The first thing that got a real reaction from me was the liquid charcoal they made me drink. That stuff is NASTY. I was convinced all their talk of its "binding to the medication" was a lie, and it was really just to make me throw up. I couldn't even finish it, though the threat of having it fed to me through a tube in my nose was scary enough to get me to choke down a lot more than I would have otherwise.

Eventually they put me in a room and started taking blood and monitoring my vitals and all that fun stuff. They also apparently flagged me as a major risk of some sort (okay, with good reason, since I'd been brought in on a purposeful overdose with huge gashes up and down my wrists and forearms) - when I opened the door to go use the bathroom, a security guard watching my room stood up and gruffly asked, "Where are you going?" "The bathroom?" I responded quite timidly. He sort of nodded his permission and I walked past him warily. But then I apparently took too long in the bathroom, because I heard my nurse ask where I was and if anyone had checked on me, and suddenly the guard was knocking loudly on the bathroom door. "What are you doing? Are you okay?" "I'm fine," I squeaked. "I'm just going to the bathroom..." From then on, when I went, I made an effort to be much quicker.

After some number of hours, one of the psychiatrists came to talk to me. He asked me lots of questions, listened carefully to both my answers and my silences (as all good listeners do), and eventually said, "Well, I think it might be good for you to come up and check in for a few days so we can work on finding some solutions. Would you be okay with that?" I nodded and sort of mumbled an assent. "Okay," he said. "Well, we'll get you registered and everything. You'll be in the voluntary wing, which is good, 'cause if you'd said no I just would have put you in the involuntary wing anyway."

Wha- ? Huh? Interesting illusion of choice you gave me there, Doc. Apparently I was coming to the looney bin whether I wanted to or not (although being here voluntarily changes my privileges, which I'll address in a later post). But either way, I was looking at multiple days in the hospital - my first time ever staying overnight in the hospital as a patient...

In the next post: Moving up to the psych unit and the road to recovery.

9 comments:

Anonymous said...

I am sitting here and i just don't know what to say. I want to help but i don't know how or whether i can. I have been admitted in the Pysch ward twice this year. It wasn't that bad..gave me time to be alone.didn't need to fake and pretend to be happy..could be depressed the whole entire day if i wanted. It has been this way for three years now.. and its time for me to leave. You must be wondering why i am telling u this..first its online.chances of anyone finding out i wrote this is very thin.secodly, i want you to know that its ok to sit in bed the whole day, and not have to communicate with the world. Its ok to go for a walk without knowing where you are heading. Its okay to feel "numb".

And screw your friends that don't understand. Its not that they don't want to help but its cause they just don't know how to help. I know you must be thinking they can just sit there next to you and not have a convo. But they can't, because they are so accustomed to doing so.

Many people are going to disagree with me, and trust me, i am not this crazy peson that is pro-suicide or anything.. but i just want to let you know that its ok..

Take care. And i really mean it..

alyndabear on 2:49 AM said...

I feel a bit like an intruder reading these posts after just meeting you; but for some reason, I just can't pull away.

I think you're braver than you think. And even though this story isn't finished yet, the fact that you're able to write about it now for others to get help from is amazing.

*hug*

sunshine scribe on 11:31 AM said...

It took a lot of courage to share that post. Thank you for trusting your readers with it. I hope that the writing has been cathartic and helpful for you. And I hope that your story as it unfolds in your posts will be helpful for women who are feeling the same way.

Sending lots of virtual support your way.

Mocha on 4:01 PM said...

You have written one of those posts that make readers catch their breath, some readers weep with empathy, and still others nod in a distant understanding.

Bravery doesn't begin to describe what this pouring out of emotion is. But I can see a healing in your future because of the bravery it took to write it down. You're making it real and OK to be this way for many, many people.

I think that some would expect you tell details and that would be wrong. You're exploring feelings here. To your benefit.

It's a long battle, but one I pray you can come out the other side of with hope. Have you read Belinda at Ninjapoodles? Or Mischa at Barefoot and Real? I'd recommend you start at Belinda's. She and her husband both write eloquently about this subject and with amazing honesty. Best of luck. Godspeed. Lots of love,
Kelly

Mom said...

I find myself reading this as if it has happened to someone other than my daughter. I think it's one of those cases of going into emotional defense mode. I recognize the humor (a major part of our family history) but the rest I will not combine with your beautiful face unless I want to fall apart myself. I'm glad you are writing your way through this and I'm thankful for all the support I read and see and hear about. I love you and am looking forward to all the hugs soon.

lara on 11:40 AM said...

anon - i do acknowledge that it's okay not to be great all the time. that's why i'm okay saying my recovery is a process, with good days and bad days. but it wasn't okay to feel that way ALL. THE. TIME. that was why i needed to get help. i hope you're doing okay now. i'm here if you want to talk.

alyndabear - i don't think of you as an intruder. i'm very glad to have "met" you, and i'm happy we're blog buddies now. your words mean a lot to me, so thanks. :)

sunshine scribe - it's something i've been thinking about more and more, whether my writing might be helpful to others. at first, i mostly needed it for my own healing, selfish as that might be. but as it's gone on, i've wondered if maybe it could help someone else. i'm considering a post at some point on cutting, just to raise awareness, since i know many people aren't familiar with the concept at all. thanks for the support - it means A LOT to me.

mocha momma - thank you for your kind words and support. i haven't read either of those, but i will definitely go check them out. and thanks again for giving me the opening i needed to start this. :)

mom - whatever makes it easier for you. i have had my own moments where i've had to check myself and say, "hey, this is me here..." it gets me a little bit, still.

Mom101 on 5:01 PM said...

I'm awed by your bravery - not just at your candor, but judging from the comments, how you're able to share this with those closest to you. In fact, I'm delighted that this is the case. While it's often easier to share all your deepest, darkest secrets with those who know you least, I think its your ability to share them with those who know you best that gives me absolute faith in your speedy recovery.

TSM-terrifically superiorily mediocre said...

I didnt' realize that the "basement" wasn't your personal blog, so I wanted to come here and introduce myself.

We have alot in common, though I'm on the tail end of my last bout, and nobody would know it (now or then).

I hope to chat with you sometime soon.

-Tracy
www.tsm.serveblog.net

Sharon on 9:07 AM said...

Know all about the psych ward. Know all about depression, anxiety, broad range of emotions. The fetal position and wanting to die. I hope you are doing better these days. It was nice what you said about your mom. I hope someday my children will feel that way.

 

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