Maybe half the reason I haven't dedicated any blog time to these events is because they still don't make a lot of sense to me. Sitting here, it's hard to believe that I was actually locked up. It's hard to believe that my situation was so desperate that I had to be checked on every 15 minutes to make sure I wasn't trying to slit my wrists with a plastic fork. It's even harder to believe that I tried. Maybe I need to flesh out these stories in order to make them mesh with the rest of me. I have some time to kill. Let's see if I can pound one out.
*****
Things weren't going well. I wrote about this plenty, so I don't think I need to go into great detail. But here is a bit of a refresher anyways. It is the beginning of January. I have stopped taking my lithium. I am cutting myself more and more. I have horrible dissociative freak outs that separate me from reality on a regular basis. And my doctor is not helping.
I think it was January 9th. I had was at my biweekly appointment at my regular clinic. After telling my doctor that I was no longer taking the lithium, I was chastised a bit and sent away with a prescription for Seroquel. Which basically meant that my doctor was trying to sedate me so I would shut the fuck up. At least that's how I viewed it. And I probably wasn't too far from the truth.
When I walked out of the clinic, I saw Dad's car parked next to mine. For one second, I felt a moment of relief that I was not alone, that I had someone I could cry to. On the other hand, I was nervous. He is a man of action. I knew he was there because he wanted to take real steps to get me help, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed with a razor. There will be time for that later, I thought to myself as I slipped into the passenger side and into a fog.
I don't remember much of what we talked about. I think I was too preoccupied with thinking that I could handle things my own way. But somewhere in the conversation, I guess I decided to placate him (I was too tired to fight) so that I could move on with my day; I agreed to go with him to Roger's Memorial Hospital that evening when Boyfriend got off of work. I am pretty sure I just agreed to check it out, not check in. But I wouldn't find out until later that they actually meant the same thing.
So, we parted ways, and again, I don't really remember how the rest of the day went. I probably cried and paced the apartment and sought out comfort in sharp objects. I probably emailed Boyfriend every 2 and half minutes and begged the cat to love me. And then maybe 6 hours later, Boyfriend was home. But we didn't stay home for long. We almost instantly hopped into his car and made the long drive out to Roger's
Memorial Hospital.
Roger's Memorial Hospital. Renowned for being the experts in mental health treatment not just in Southeastern Wisconsin, but in all of North America. People come from far and wide to get better at this beautiful facility with its majestic architecture and glorious forests. It is a place of peace and healing. It radiates support. The opportunity of a lifetime was at my fingertips.
Or so we thought.
Together, Boyfriend, Dad, and I all outlined my past, present, and projected future. We told the intake specialist about the abuse that I have endured, both by the hands of other people and myself. We divulged my eating disorder. We rehashed the dissociative episodes. And, holy shit, did all that suck.
But it was great that Dad was there. He pounded the point home that he wanted someone to really get to know me. It was important that the doctors do not just accept the diagnosis that I was given by the county. In order for me to really get the help I needed, it was absolutely necessary that we start with a blank state. Don't pay attention to her previous diagnosis. Get to know Mary. Take the time to understand what she has been through. We don't care if this takes a month or two or three. She deserves the best. The word "bipolar" was never uttered.
Yes, we totally understand, sir. We think Mary needs to be here, starting tonight. Are you ready?
Hold up. This whole time I thought we were there just to look at the facility. All of a sudden I heard that I may be staying for months starting that night. Fuck no, I'm not ready! I had a moment of panic. I begged them to let me go home and spend one last night in my bed. I wasn't even packed. I had nothing but my purse with me. I didn't have my toothbrush or my clothes or my teddy bear. I was not ready. It was then decided that I would go home for the night, pack, and come back in about 9 hours to check in for a good long stay at the answer to all my problems.
To say I was freaking out on the way home would be an understatement. I was hardcore panicking. Hell, I hated the hour I had to spend at the clinic every two weeks. How the fuck was I supposed to handle being in a mental hospital 24 hours a day? I freaked out on the car ride home. I freaked out while I packed. (What do you wear to be committed?) I freaked out going to bed. I freaked out the second I woke up. I freaked out on the car ride back.
My new home. Boyfriend stayed with me for about an hour during the intake process before he had to go to work, and Dad stayed with me the majority of the morning. I did not make it easy on either of them. I cried and continued to panic. It all felt like a really bad dream. I wanted someone to tell me that my situation was not that bad, that I can just go home, and maybe bump up how often I go to therapy. But I don't need to be in a residential facility. Naw, you're fine. Take your hoodies with strings, and go home.
That did not happen. I was left there as a reject. As the nurses went through all my possessions, stealing what I could not be trusted with, like notebooks with wire and beauty products with alcohol, I desperately tried to figure out how I could use what they left me with to hurt myself. Not necessarily because I needed that release. I just wanted to show them how futile their efforts were to keep me safe. I would do what I want. But I didn't. It wasn't until my second trip to the hospital that I would actually carry out my plans to cut myself in my room. More on that later.
Eventually, I calmed down. I even went to some of the group therapy sessions to dip my toes into this healing process. I didn't actively participate, but I did make that small effort of showing up. I spent hours in my room, sitting on top of my desk by the window, writing what I was hoping would be the opening to my memoir. (Great American novels are all fueled by mental illness, right?) I ate lunch with the rest of the outcasts in my position, and by ate, I mean I picked at hospital food until I thought I had sat with it long enough to throw it away with no one noticing.
There was one odd moment during the day. A nurse brought a packet of information to my room about bipolar disorder written by the doctor I was going to see later that afternoon. My first thought was, Shit, they talked to my doctor. I was hoping that since we hadn't used the word "bipolar," that it just wouldn't come up at all. Maybe they would be able to properly diagnose me. (At this point, I was still not convinced that I was actually bipolar.) But I assumed that they had called my other doctor and determined that, yup, I'm definitely bipolar. The doctor through the county says so.
As I read through the packet of information, I noticed that half of it was about what an expert on bipolar disorder my new doctor was. It also had weird "facts," like how people with piercings and tattoos are more likely to be bipolar. I knew I was in for a real treat when I met this guy. This total bullshit I was reading through was really making my hope fade, what little hope I had to begin with.
Then came my afternoon appointment with the doctor. I shit you not, for the first 15 minutes of stepping into his office, I didn't get to say a damn word. This guy went on and on about what bipolar disorder is, how many people have it, what the symptoms are, blah, blah, blah. And somehow, he already knew that I had it. Even though I hadn't said a damn word. AND even though he hadn't talked to my other doctor. Apparently everyone, yes, everyone, has bipolar disorder.
After sitting there for a good 15 minutes listening to this guy get off on the sound of his own voice and expertise, I started to butt in a little bit. I was desperately trying to tell him the story of my dissociative episodes that were making me cut myself while he explained to me why I was just bipolar. It was absolutely nothing else. I was practically in tears and borderline shouting about how I wanted help. I was beyond desperate. I literally begged him to listen to me and drop the bipolar thing for just a minute. He couldn't do that. He was the doctor, and he knew what was best. This fuckhead yelled at me for being noncompliant and questioning him, the almighty father of psychological diagnosis. He told me that if I wouldn't listen to him that I would have to watch his video presentation on bipolar disorder with Dad and Boyfriend during visiting hours. Then he lowered his head to his notebook and told me to leave. I may or may not have slammed the door a bit on my way out.
So, there I am, at one of the best hospitals in the country, and I get into an actual argument with the doctor in charge of my treatment. For those of you who know me, that probably sounds a bit unusual. Sure, I'm bipolar, but I don't argue. I avoid confrontation at all costs. Hell, I ended up in the hospital because I didn't want to argue with Dad. If I was going to move into a mental hospital, I sure wasn't going to let myself be walked all over like that. It was in that moment that I realized that I wanted real help.
A couple hours later, Dad and Boyfriend showed up for visiting hours, right on time. And as planned, my lovely doctor had given the DVD of his bipolar presentation to the nurses to put on for us. But first, I took Dad and Boyfriend into my room to explain the day I had. I think Boyfriend almost had a heart attack when I told them something happened and that I needed to speak with them alone. In retrospect, I probably should have been less dramatic about the whole thing. But I was still beyond pissed.
So I explained what a dumbass my doctor was, and then we all proceeded to one of the larger rooms with a TV so we could be enlightened by his presentation. Seriously, I think Dad laughed through half of it. Dad, for those of you who don't know, works in the mental health field and has lived experiences himself. I'd be inclined to say that he is more of an expert than most doctors. His entire video was bullshit. He was trying to redefine bipolar disorder into a condition that every single person suffers from. He was unsuccessfully trying to make himself an expert on something it sounded like he knew nothing about.
And that was when we decided that this was not the place for me. I was not going to get the help I needed from a doctor who diagnosed people before they even step into his office. My mind still wanders to him occasionally. I wonder how many people he has improperly diagnosed and, worse, medicated for a disorder they don't have. I wonder if there is any way I can bring to light what an idiot the best hospital the country has working for it.
I think the thrill of potentially leaving has made this part of the experience a little blurry for me again. I remember hanging out in one of the bigger rooms with Boyfriend while Dad talked to people. I remember waiting to see if the doctor was still in the building to discharge me. And I remember sitting in a room with Boyfriend, Dad, and the doctor discussing why I should leave. Of course, Dad was totally polite about the whole thing, trying to justify that this was just not the place for me without blatantly calling the doctor an idiot.
After getting the doctor to agree that I would not be helped there, meeting privately with the nurses to ensure that this was my decision, not Dad's or Boyfriend's, and a whole bunch of paperwork releasing Roger's of any liability, I was finally discharged against medical advice. Yeah, I was discharged from a mental hospital against medical advice. Kind of badass, right?
And we celebrated. On the way home, Boyfriend and I went for dinner at Kopp's, and I anticipated my own bed as though I had actually been away from it for months, not 14 hours. A very naive part of me thought that this experience was all I needed to scare me straight, that I would suddenly be "cured" of whatever mental ailment I had. That could not have been further from the truth. I went downhill more than I thought possible, and ended up at Aurora in less than 3 weeks. But more on that later.
