Been gone awhile.. Much has happened and much has stayed the same.
What has stayed the same? Still getting a divorce.
As
to the "What" of the "Much that has happened..." It is a long story, as
it should be, for many days have passed. I am too weary to tell it all
but I will write some now, and some tomorrow perhaps.
About the
last entry.. That day... I called him.. there was no answer. I texted
him.. no response. I felt he was, once again, not taking me seriously. I
cried... a lot. I broke the lock to the gun cabinet by prying it open..
i just didn't want to live anymore. I paced the house, gun loaded,
safety off, cocked and ready. My panic came in waves.. I didn't know
what to do, I just knew I wanted to die. In a last ditch effort, I made a
call to his parents.. All I could do was cry.. plead for help. They
thought I was his sister... so I hung up. Of course they would think it
was her.. why would they bother thinking it might be me? Why would they
care? I cried more. I sat.. I became cold and calm.
At that point
I did put a gun to my head. Finger on the trigger, eyes filled with
tears and staring at images of my daughter, myself when I was my
daughter's age, my wedding picture, and that screenshot sent to me from
someone who has still yet to be named. But though my eyes were filled
with tears, I felt insanely calm. As if I were in the center of a
hurricane... time stood still. I was at peace. And it was a peace I had
never felt before.. It was a peace that felt "right". I wasn't scared
anymore. I think I even felt a smile on my lips because I was so certain
that for the first time in my entire life, I was doing the right thing,
Just
when I had numbed myself to the point where pulling the trigger would
be no problem, I heard him call my name. I remember blinking once as his
voice registered and he called my name again. I heard the door press
against the chain lock. My throat seemed to close up yet a whimper
somehow escaped.
He heard it.
He asked if i wanted him to go away... did i?
Did I want him to go away so I could finish this once and for all?
End this pain and suffering that I seemed to be causing everyone including myself?
Did I want him to leave me be so that he and his family could live in peace?
Did I?
The
questions raced through my head at lightening speed and before I even
knew it, I found myself unlatching the chain. Weeping so hard that my
entire body trembled before I collapsed onto the hallway floor. I don't
even remember walking down the hall. I do remember him taking the gun
from me despite my feeble attempts to hold it. I still wanted to die..
Why
did I let him in? What made me go to the door and allow his entry? I
still don't know. That was June 23rd. A Sunday. The date of my last
entry.
The blur I remember from that point was being driven to a
mental hospital by his sister. She spoke to me like a child... I didn't
take offense as she is a school teacher after all. Tears kept falling. I
wasn't sobbing anymore, but I was drained, raw, and empty. But the
tears would not stop. I remember sitting in triage.. waiting for what
seemed like forever. Waiting for a straightjacket. Waiting for him to
just leave me there. Waiting for
something to happen... It ended up I was waiting to be handed papers of permission to be treated to be signed.
Then
I was walked away. Away from him. Away from the noise. Away into a room
where I was made to change into scrubs and then offered a dinner which
sat for hours untouched. Signed more papers. Blood was drawn. Spoke
blankly to a psychiatrist and then sat on the gurney rocking back and
forth trying not to go catatonic. More papers to be signed.. then I was
lead outside and driven to another facility.
I was terrified to
get out of the car. The tech and the security guard did their best to
calm me but I was shaking so bad I could hardly walk. The guard walked
quickly, the tech slowed his pace to match mine and make certain I
didn't fall. I was lead through what seemed to be a plethora of outside
"hallways" before we even made it into the unit. I could hear nothing
but the buzz of the overhead lights and my mind seemed to focus on the
moths and gnats that flitted around them as we walked. It was hot. It
was humid. It would have felt miserable had I not already felt dead.
Finally
we made it into the coolness of the facility. My first reaction was how
I thought it odd that the pale green be the color of choice for
"soothing". Granted it is a color for psychological "balance" but it is
also considered to be associated boredom, stagnation, blandness, and
enervation. I would have thought pale, calming shades of blue to be more
appropriate. As I write this, it strikes me as odd to even have this
thought at that moment considering my mindset.
I don't remember
much after that. I know I was "processed", made to change into yet,
another set of scrubs, and given a room which I didn't leave for the
first four days unless I was "made" to do so by the staff in order to
eat or take meds. I didn't speak to anyone, patient, tech, nurse... I
didn't trust anyone. I always looked down, never meeting anyone's eyes. I
got compliments on my hair.. (which is blue now, btw, by accident) to
which I mumbled 'thank you' before hurrying back to the safety of my
room.
Many nights I spent panicked and curled up into a corner
wrapped in a blanket when other patients (usually male) would get out of
hand and start screaming in the middle of the night. This was an
on-going thing until the doctor ordered meds to sedate me. But after a
few days, I grew immune and the sleeping pills alone were no longer
enough.
I slept most of the first 5 of the 12 days spent there... It was a long road ahead..
As stated, the first several days were spent in my room. Insomnia hit me
at night, but the days I slept almost constantly because of the mix of
anxiety medication and the chronic deep depression. When awake, tears
fell near constantly. My thoughts.. I am not sure I could tell you
exactly what they were other than feeling ashamed of my worthlessness.
The patients who had visitors were constant reminders of how (I
perceived) no one gave a shit about me. That it did not matter if I
rotted there. I would listen to conversations.. so many of them. One of
them being between two techs. They spoke of how there was a guy on the
west unit who had, at that point, been in the facility 10 months.
10 Months!!
His family apparently signed him in. They spoke about how he would get
calls from them, and he would walk to the phone as if to take the call,
and then simply hang up. I thought about him a lot. I wondered if I were
to end up staying that long (or longer), if I would get calls or if I
would simply be forgotten. Then I decided I would not be forgotten
because the divorce would go through and eventually I'd be kicked onto
the street.
These are just a sample of the the thoughts of the broken hopeless person I had become..
The
first couple of days, the techs were almost lax when it came to my
eating habits. (Or lack thereof). But soon they would force me out of
bed and out of the room to join the others in meals, most of which I
barely touched. It was then that my high level of social anxiety became
very apparent. I would take a roll, pull pieces off and nibble while
rocking back and forth. I don't think I ever actually finished the roll,
let alone the rest of the meal because all I remember were more tears.
Silent yet steadily streaming down my cheeks. I was hot but my skin was
cold and clammy. Next thing I knew, I would wake in my room, hours
later, curled up in a fetal position and wrapped in blankets with no
recollection of how I ended up there. It was awhile before I realized
that they were medicating my anxiety during the day, but during the
evening they didn't bother as they figured the sleeping pill would be
enough.
Day 5 was the first time I ventured out of my room of my
own volition. It was the first time I comprehended I had a doctor
overseeing my status and medication, as well as a social worker
overseeing other aspects of the situation that I still don't quite
understand. It was the first day I had a conversation with my doctor.
The usual questions were asked and always answered honestly. Yes, I
still want to die. No I don't want to hurt anyone else. No I have not
been hurting myself nor do I want to. I just don't want to live. No I
don't know my family's psychological history. No I do not have any
friends or family on the outside. Yes I was abused as a child and as an
adult, physically, sexually, and probably emotionally too considering
self-confidence was no longer even in my vocabulary. I got defensive
during the questioning. And as I did, my anxiety rose. My blood pressure
was taken, it was so low that they took it 3 more times to be certain
the reading was right. Twice with the machine and once the 'old school'
way. I felt the haze coming on as he said he was going to adjust my
medications and encourage me to attend the group therapies that took
place. I remember glaring at him and telling him flat-out that my
anxiety would not allow me to join group. That I needed one-on-one. That
I read it in my original notes fro my first psychiatrist. He simply
stated he would up my meds and for me to try.. Feeling dizzy, I was
offered more meds and I wend back to my room and slept for 12 hours,
missing breakfast, lunch, and snack and would have missed dinner as well
had I not been woken.
Day 8 - He came to visit. I was still a
mess of emotion. Still feeling worthless. I tried to have a normal
conversation but all I could remember was the painful words of the
screenshot. I had asked if we were still getting a divorce. He said yes.
I asked if there was another girl (half-hoping that was the case cause
then I could make sense of everything) he said no. I don't remember much
of the conversation, other than getting up and walking away murmuring
about how I was a controlling abuser and have never nor could ever love
anyone or care about anyone and I believed every word. I didn't look
back, instead focusing on how my mother was right all along. That if my
own dad could not love me as a baby, no one would love me as an adult. I
did not have another visitation from him again, nor anyone else for the
rest of my stay. I believed the reason to be was that I was not worth
the effort.
Day 9 I was threatened by one of the nurses that if I
didn't start going to group I would be sent to the West Unit. (Where
all the real problem people are.) This scared me, so I forced myself to
try.. I could never last longer that 10 minutes in the room due to my
anxiety. I tried three times and finally just gave up, deciding that
being transferred would be better anyway since from what I had heard,
they tended to over-medicate the real crazies and maybe I would get
lucky enough to be one of the ones over-medicated.
Day 10 I met
with a woman who was to interview me and determine my eligibility for
SMI Disability Insurance. The "interview" turned into a 2 hour long
session because the flood-gates opened then and everything came pouring
out. Every horrible graphic detail of my childhood all the way to how I
ended up in the facility. I used up nearly two boxes of tissues from
crying so much. When I finally looked up at her, her eyes met mine
controlled yet seemingly damp and slightly horrified. I then apologized
profusely and she asked if I had ever talked to anyone before and I
admitted that she was the first. She looked down at her papers as she
straightened them.. I merely noted how much writing there was that then
immediately felt the flush of deep shame and I apologized again. She
told me not to.. that I had nothing to be sorry for.. but I felt
horrible. The rest of the day, I stayed in my room, coming out only for
meds and the meal I knew I would be forced to attend.
Day 11 was
my first real sit down with the social worker. I vented about the groups
and how my papers stated that I needed 1:1 therapy and how I wasn't
getting it and how I felt like I was being treated like a number. I
vented about how the nurses asked us to trust them yet half of them
couldn't be friendly or even remember my name and how I felt like I was
in something that resembled a mix of a prison and a dog pound and how I
still felt worthless and how I questioned everything I have ever stood
for.... and he listened.
In fact it was the first time that
someone actually payed attention to me, heard what I was saying, and
offered feedback. He sat with me for over 2 hours conversing and taking
the time to actually tell me I was not worthless. That my core values
mattered. That he had faith in me and believed in me. By the end of our
conversation I went from feeling like a worthless waste of space to
someone who still had worth. It wasn't a strong feeling. In fact it was
quite tiny and fragile. But it was the first time in months that I felt
like I *might* be able to handle the road ahead. I left the room with a
seed of hope. That evening, the hope grew bit by bit. By morning, I was
up and waiting for him and my doctor in the hall at 5:30am. I sat there
and right when they came in, I nearly ambushed them saying I was ready
to go home. And I was persistent until finally they said "okay".
And I got out.
My
hope is still very, very small. Puny even. It's fragile, cracked, and
held together with little more than paste and string. But it's there.
And it's mine.
I just need help to get it to grow stronger. And I
know that will take a lot of work, especially since it's mostly on me
and I am trying to have it take the place of decades of negativity. I'm
still scared. Petrified of what is to come... and praying to the powers
that be that the choices I make as far as those I decide to keep in my
life will not play a part in destroying the infinitesimal bit I have
finally found.
I don't want to feel like dying again... Because I
really feel that if I return to that point, there wont be a chance to
come back. Because I wont bother to ask for help. I will just do it with
no warning.
