Ive come to write here several times and I just end up sitting, watching the blinking cursor in front of me, not knowing where to start and what to say. So, Ive decided to put my phone in talk to text mode and just let go … without giving more thought than is really necessary to what I’m thinking as I think it. I cannot keep pushing it down.
Stream of consciousness, narrative mode…
The last post I wrote, on Monday, was written through tears. The mask shattered. I crashed and it burned. I did nothing but cry. All I could do was cry. I didn’t get out of bed until noon and I was crying. Everything hurt. Physically and emotionally. I didn’t want to hurt anymore. I didn’t want to try anymore. It all seemed futile. Pointless. I thought of ways to dull everything out. Then there was suicidal ideation.
I was standing at the kitchen counter, cutting up the pineapple, crying, when I accidentally slipped and cut myself. I actually admired the sharpness and welcomed the pain. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I attempted to get out of the house for a while. I walked the dogs and made the phone call to reach out to someone but I couldn’t stop crying long enough to continue the conversation with my father or even get myself ready enough to go anywhere with him. I just couldn’t.
It was then that I knew I had to put my plan in place. The plan I have in place in case it gets to this point. The point when I start to tell myself things like:
“I don’t want to be here anymore”.
Step one, I call my husband. I told him how bad it was and he urged me to call my psychiatrist, which I didn’t want to do because I knew what would follow. My sister is getting married on St. Patrick’s Day, my parents are all tied up with that, there are a lot of things going on with the kids this week, I didn’t want to set anybody off into panic or worry with so much in the balance. But my husband asked me to stop and think what I would do if none of those things were on the table and the answer, with everything else aside, was easy. I wasn’t safe and I needed help. Everything else aside, I would call my psychiatrist or go to the hospital. So I did.
Step two, I call my psychiatrist. I tell her how bad it is. She urges me to come in to see her for admission. Again, I hesitate. I struggle with what it is going to mean to everyone else. And I set it aside. It’s time to go. I want to live.
Step three, I commit to commitment. I reach out to a friend to tell them the decision that I’ve arrived at so that I am accountable to it. In doing so, I reached out to the only person in my life who understands my darkest moments even when I’m keeping my issues close, Biscuit. She knows my plan. She understands it personally. We are each other’s “check mate”. It makes the conversation about it very short and self-explanatory.
Unfortunately since Biscuit lives on the other side of the country and because Hubster was at work and I still only have my temporary driver’s permit, I had to reach out to someone else for a ride. Fortunately, in my haste it was someone who I normally wouldn’t reach out to but who I found out cared for me more than I could have ever imagined. Sometimes you don’t know how much someone really cares until you allow them to.
My Dad arrived at some point in the steps. I couldn’t say which. We had a rather unfair conversation in which he attempted to be compassionate and I was very frustrated and didn’t want to hear about praying and what God’s role was in all of this. I told him that which afflicted me was not something that could be prayed away and if I thought it would fix me I’d likely spend a lot more time on my knees instead of pacing the floor in my manicness, but that’s not how brain chemistry works. He also started to talk to me about my childhood in an apologetic way. I appreciate this now, but in the moment it was more than I could handle and as my friend pulled in the driveway, I rushed out the door, away from all of that and into my friend’s arms. My Dad thanked her and we went on our way. She thanked me for giving her the chance to be there for me. It meant as much to her as it did to me and that felt really good in a moment of such vulnerability. I felt safe.
That’s how I ended up in the hospital for two days. Turned out that my mood stabilizer required 300-400 calories to be ingested at the time of dosing in order to be properly absorbed and because I have been so sick recently and not eating, I really wasn’t getting my medication. They switched over to a sublingual that won’t come with the food requirements and that is making a huge difference already.
Im currently back home and bed bound with a migraine and nausea while Hubster and the Diva are at Jedi‘s school play. I don’t feel great about that. In fact, I feel like a shitty parent because since I was in the hospital, I missed the deadline to make transportation arrangements for Pickle as well. Speaking of shitty … I’m not. I’m all backed up which is likely just adding to the nausea I’m dealing with. Thank you, gastroparesis. I don’t know how I’m going to handle going through another flare up. I guess I’ll just cross that bridge when I get to it. In the meantime, I’m just laying here in the dark, listening to ‘House, M.D.‘ episodes. It is too much to ask for just ONE episode where someone presents with my symptoms and diagnoses? I feel like I’m just the sort of case House would have loved to dissect.
On the plus side, my circulation issues allow my fingers to be the most nimble sort of ice pack over my eyes … so at least there’s that.