So on the morning of September the 19th I reported to work at the hour of 7:45 as scheduled.  I helped open the vault, opened drive thru, processed night deposit bags, all as planned.  And I waited patiently until my boss had time to give me at 9.

At 9 I sat my boss down and informed her I was in over my head and needed to seek help, hospitalization, before the end of the day.  The sooner the better, so I wouldn’t change my mind.  I spelled out why, I told her I was so sorry I was abandoning the branch, that I would be back, then made the decision that I was better off not finishing the day.  I was not in the place I needed to be to function as an effective employee.  I sold down my cashbox to zero.  I gave instructions for Sheldon, the ATM I control.  I clocked out at 10AM.

On the way out of the parking lot I called Pat, told him I’d be there within 2 hours, I needed him to drive me to the emergency room and just drop me off.  I drove to mom’s house, packed a bag of clothes and books (let us be honest, mostly books) and then I drove myself to Pat’s house.  Pat and the two youngest kids was ready for me, we piled into the car and he drove me to the ER and as per my instructions and deepest appreciation, he left me there.

I got to the ER at noon and spent 6 hours in the hallway with a minder.  They didn’t have a bed for me and there were a few of us, different reasons, she needed to mind.  Babysit.  I, however, was the good cooperative patient and was allowed both my book and my phone which was against hospital policy but even the shrink who did my intake didn’t see the harm since I was there of my own will and being cooperative.  She even let me fish out the charger and hand it immediately over so when my battery died it could get a fresh charge across the hall, out of my reach.  Which, I mean so much policy was broken there, so I understood the caution around the ease of caution.

6PM I was found a room in the hospital of my choice.  By 8 I was fully admitted, shown my bed, and settled in.  Uh, as much as one can get settled into a psych ward.

I was discharged the following Wednesday the 25th at 1:30.  7 days there including the day at the ER.  It was… Productive.

In those 7 days I read 4.75 books, didn’t attend a single group, and did all I could to self-sooth while meds kicked in.  Naps and books.  Books and naps.  It was effective.

Why did I go?  I was suicidal.  Plan, research, where, when, just needed the tool.  I was working on that.

Step back a bit.

So you may remember I stopped seeing my shrink awhile back, earlier this year.  I was stable, all was good, it was a mutual decision.  Then things spiraled out of control and in the  midst of that I lost my insurance.

So here I was with this mess piled on me.  I have all these amazing coping tools that I was using but it just got to be so heavy and I couldn’t find my way out and I couldn’t find the help I needed.  Not the professional help.  I needed my meds doctor back and I needed my meds back but without insurance and money I didn’t know how to do that.

I knew the office I see her at has government funding but I know the wait-list and the bureaucracy and my head was spinning in circles and I couldn’t see straight and all I could see was that I just wanted it to stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stop.  I just wanted it done.  It being me.  My existence.  My pain.  My life.

I knew I needed help but I didn’t know where to turn so I finally decided my best bet was an emergency, short term fix, aka the psych ward, and that they were never going to release me without help on the outside world.  They might even be able to get me back to my established team.

They did.  Oh they beautifully and amazingly did.  Not the in-house shrink, no he’s a pill pushing idiot, but my caseworker got me my team back.  No matter I don’t have insurance, I have history, I was in emergency, I needed my team and I have my team

That alone…  I can breath.  And life can start.

Why?

Pain.  I feel like such a weakling admitting the day-in and day-out pain is getting to me.  I know people, specific person, who has it so very much worse than I.  But we all have our breaking point.  For some it’s how much pain, for others it’s how long.  I was reaching the deadly combo of both.

My hands.  I’m losing my fine motor skills.  All of them.  Some days are better than others but I can’t grasp, I can’t manipulate fine tools, like you know, pens.  Rock bottom there hit around the time I dropped my camera.  I destroyed my portrait lens and I may have damaged the camera itself.  I don’t know.  I’ve tested it, but I don’t yet have the heart to look at the test results.

I walked out on my marriage and my family.  And while I do not regret ending my marriage, the pain I suffer over the kids staying with him, however right that decision may have been, is suffocating.  I’m also struggling with the fact I broke his heart.  I can’t rule my life by his heart but he is still… Patrick.

I’m also not sleeping.  Still, even after the hospital.  At least not at night.  The Cymbalta knocked me out during the day while there.  I’m working on the sleep thing but it’s so very hard to function on no sleep.  It turns molehills into mountains, and my mountains into the Himalayas.

So I’m out now.  And while I’m not yet awesome, I’m within sight of the light at the end of the tunnel.  I have hope and a plan.  A life plan.  I hit rock bottom.  But after a week in the psych ward I’m ready, finally, to find myself and build who I want to be post rock bottom.  With so many life changes in the works, I’m at a blank slate of who I want to be as I approach 30 and look to the next decade.  I can decide who I am, who I want to be, what I want in life, and how I want to get there.

And I’m finally ready to start building.