“So you could write a book on BPD,” she said as greeting before she ever said her name. I had already been in my local ER for some 20 hours before she came into see me. I had seen various other nurses, doctors, and social workers though, so she had plenty of intel on me.
What was I in the ER? I needed a psych bed.
Was I an immediate danger to myself? No, but… That overwhelming feeling of hopeless, helpless, and no longer wanting to be alive paired with increased impulsive tendencies, and being so stressed you snap at everything and everyone, is a scary feeling I don’t like.
What did I want? A psych bed long enough to destress some and decompress long enough to start remembering there is another side to this and that I’ll ultimately get through it, and a chance to increase my anti-depressant.
What did they hear? That I had no immediate plan to kill myself, and that I wanted to increase my meds.
What did they tell my meds doctor who made the final decision? Probably exactly that?
So, I was given a lecture on how I’d no longer benefit from the therapy the hospital offers as I could probably run the groups I know them so well, and how this is all just a mood shift probably caused by stress over my sister. They told me that I knew it would swing back as it always does with BPD. Then they sent me packing.
And now I’m left in a daze of “what the hell just happened”. Am I suddenly too smart to need the hospital? Is there really that big of a difference between actively having a plan, and passively wanting to be dead? Because I’m impulsive enough right now that everything all can change the second an opportunity presents itself.
But I suppose I am smart enough to know that given time and the right meds I’ll feel better.
But I’m also smart enough to know that there is no cure from BPD. It’s a lifelong battle. And I’ll feel like this a lot more often than I’ll feel fantastic.