I Was Addmitted Not Committed Because I’m Not Crazy

Musings of A Psych Patient Part 2

Posted on by kmarrs

The psych ward is an interesting, albeit inappropriate, place to play “guess the diagnosis.  The first person I diagnosed basically handed it to me on a silver platter within hours of being there.  I confirmed it with her later.  But then when her friend picked up on my neat trick, he wanted me to guess his next.  His was a touch harder, but I asked the right questions and figured it out.  I also explained what it all meant to him since no one had bothered to do that.  From there it was all speculation as I didn’t go around confirming, but it kept us entertained for a bit.

I suppose that’s one way to pass time in a psych ward.

Musings of A Psych Patient Part 1

Posted on by kmarrs

What do you say during your 4th trip to a psych ward that hasn’t already been said?  By the end of trip 2, chronicling the day-to-day activities gets old.  Nothing really changes.  The TV’s are wall mounted now.  Jesus isn’t here.  The doctor that tried to kill me is gone too.  Everything else stays the same.  Even if the facility changes.

The telling of the 3rd stay took the humorous tone.  “10 things you can’t appreciate until you’ve spent a week in a psych ward,” is always fun.  But that list too remains the same.  The water is too hot or too cold when showering.  The bath towels are hand towels.

I know better than to get attached to anyone this trip.  The first few times I always made at least one friend that swore to keep in touch.  I know better now.  Psych ward friends aren’t real world friends.

It’s funny how a place overflowing with people can get to be so lonely so fast.  Even in the middle of the hoopla.  Lonely.  Isolating.

Those feelings are what brought me here in the first place. I had thought making a new friend might fix that.  The elation lasted 2 days then I was sunk into the realization that my expectations are too high.  I’m looking for an “almost lover” or Clyde level impact and those two individuals can’t be replicated, and neither can those experiences.  We’ll see what R brings me.

Five Days, Four Nights

Posted on by kmarrs

This is going to come out very disjointed and just won’t flow.  I’m sorry, but that’s just how I am at this time with this topic.

I spent most of the last couple of weeks in July fantasizing about taking a few bottles worth of pills.  It wasn’t just a, “I wish I was dead,” but a full on plan.

When I tried to hospitalize myself in March, the hospital I went to was so sure it was just the stress of my sister’s illness.  They refused to take my own illness seriously.  When she got her transplant, and that stress was over, but I didn’t magically get better, I, in fact, got worse.  For a while I thought it was just me needing more friendship in my life.  I made a new friend.  I chatted with the new friend.  I was ecstatic for like two days, and then the new friend excitement wore off and I still felt like I wanted to die.  Turns out I didn’t just need friends.

But being turned away last March left me with zero faith in the system.  I was “too smart to need hospitalization”.  Yeah, yeah.  I’m also smart enough to know exactly how to successfully kill myself.

So I called my meds doctor and I filled her in on how I was feeling, the extent to which I was suicidal, and why it was I was hesitant to go to the hospital.  I knew I needed help, but I also knew if I got turned away again I would go through with an attempt.  At that point, all hope I had would be gone.

She, of course, pointed out the differences between the present and March.  For starters, in March as horrible as I felt, I was wishing I was dead, not planning it.  I also decided it would be wise to pick another hospital.  This time I went to OSU instead of Mount Carmel East.  Why yes, I am breaking my policy and I’m naming names.

OSU actually apologized for MC’s mistake even though they had nothing to do with it.  They full on told me that MC made a bad decision.  In doing so they didn’t just validate me being there in the present, but they validated my needs back in March.

I spent about 8 hours in the ER before they made the final decision and got my room ready.  There was never really much doubt in them keeping me, outside of my paranoia at the system.

While still in the ER, the consulting Psychiatrist and I discussed what exactly the stay could do for me, besides keeping me safe.  I finally admitted to myself and the world that the Cymbalta, my miracle drug, just wasn’t working anymore.  We discussed alternative meds and I picked Zoloft because it would help with depression and my anxiety.  The very next morning I start Zoloft and they started weaning me off Cymbalta.  To say I was fast-tracked is an understatement.  In 4 days I was taken off 120MG of Cymbalta and put on 150MG of Zoloft.  My body handled it well.

It was Friday, July 31, 2015, that I was admitted, and I was released the following Tuesday.

And here is where I end this tale for now.  I, of course, did some writing while I was in there, and I’ll share that with you in bits and pieces over the next week or so.

Stay safe.

When You’re Too Smart To Be Hospitalized

Posted on by kmarrs

Untreated BPD“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.

On Blank Slates and Life Collages

Posted on by kmarrs

Borderline Personality Disorder BPDAs I have struggled over the past few weeks I have been guided to the simple fact that I get a life and personality reset.  A blank slate to build myself, find myself, and who I am.  I can wipe the slate of who I am clean and decide from this point on who I want to be.

I spent a week mostly refusing to leave a bed, unless I was draping myself over a sofa, doing nothing but reading, sleeping and thinking.  There is a lot of thinking that can get done in a week.

During that time I reflected on what I like about myself.  What I like about the corner stones of my life.  What I like about the relationships, family friend and romantic, in my life.  What did I want to keep as is?  What did I want to lose completely?  What did I want to keep but that needed tweaked a little bit to make them healthier and happier for me?

I have this blank slate before me of who I am.  I wiped everything clean.  I immediately pinned back on the things I love.  I love my career and the company my career is with, so clearly I’m keeping that.  I love that I’m caring and giving, so that went back up too.  I’m still not happy with my marriage, so that stays off.  I have a friendship or two that I’m very happy with but that needs some tweaking here and there to make them healthier and happier for all parties involved.  What did I like about the friendships?  Keep!  What did I dislike about them?  Tweak or toss.  BPD traits were really getting in the way.  Interpersonal relationships will always be hard, no matter how stable I become.  Not that I’ve been stable as of late.

I’m listening to myself, my head and heart, as I do this rebuild.  I’m listening to the collective of those in my life.  If the general consensus is that something within myself needs fixed (hey, you  might want to go back on meds) I’m going to listen and take that into account on this rebuild.  Granted, I won’t shape myself to please any one person, but if everyone around me is saying the same damn thing, it’s time to take notice.  Even if it’s just one voice, but they are the authoritative voice, like say my boss and it’s work related, I don’t need to wait for the consensus to join in.  By that point my job is in jeopardy.

I am not the same person that went into the hospital.  I don’t yet fully know who I am, yet, but I’m going to like her.

So, my friend, will you.

Wait, What?!?! Psych Ward?!?!

Posted on by kmarrs

Depression BPD Borderline Personality DIsorder BipolarSo 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.