A Day at Roger's Memorial Hospital

I sometimes browse through my blog when I'm bored. I edit previous posts, criticize myself for something I said, and regret what I didn't. Well, I come to you today to make up for some of that. While I was looking things over, I realized that I totally glossed over my trips to the mental hospital back in January. Yeah, I was on a locked psych ward twice in one month and barely wrote a post on it. But I wrote like 7 posts about my job. What the hell is wrong with me?

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.

Too Frustrated to Write a Title

I was hoping to write a positive post today. I'm one full month clean. Go me! I've barely thought about hurting myself since I've come home from the hospital, and there haven't even been any close calls. But I'm slipping. It's like I've spent this whole week running downhill as fast as I can to hit rock bottom again.

It's this damn job. Not my new job, the one that I love. The one that leaves me fulfilled and hopeful. It's being a fucking freelance writer. Despite what you may have seen in the movies, it is not a glamorous day. I don't sip espresso and spew creativity. I write bullshit that I am paid pennies for. I sit in the same room for about 22 hours a day. I have a 10 foot radius that I eat all three meals in, work in, relax in, and perform daily chores in. I lose all momentum to write what I enjoy after spending a day writing shit that I don't. Being a freelance writer is actually making me despise my home and my passion.

In order to make this a profitable business for myself, I have to be at 100% every single day. I can't be tired or have a slow day or take a paid vacation. If I don't work, I don't get paid. If I don't work with boundless energy, efficiently  and up to a dozen people's standards, I get paid shit. Let's not forget that there are days that I am more than ready to write a novel, but no one has any work for me to do. Again, I don't get paid. And then I pace, stare at bill due dates, cry, check my email every 3 minutes hoping someone has sent me an order, hate myself, scour Craig's List for gigs, panic.

This is not the job for someone with bipolar less than one month out of a mental hospital. How the hell am I supposed to be at 100% every day? The stress is getting to me. I'm letting Boyfriend down. I'm letting myself down. I'm proving to everyone that I can't do it. I can't be normal.

So this week, I have been waking up every day dreading what is to come. I sit in front of the computer and feel the hot tears swelling up. But I'm afraid to let them drop because I've been doing so well. But I'm afraid to admit that I'm burnt out and scared.

You will be jealous I got to go and you didn't.

You know that feeling when you go back to your diary after not writing in it for a really long time, and, even though logically you're aware it's just a bundle of paper, you feel awkward because you know it knows you've been ignoring it? No? Just me? Ok.

Well, that's how I feel right now. I was in the hospital for a week and spent another week legitimately not knowing how to put into words what happened. Every time I thought about writing here, I had that sudden urge to hide, like when I pretend that I missed someone's text so that I don't have to make a commitment to hang out right then. I know I am not the only one who does that.

But, here I am. Braving the blog. Still awkwardly not knowing what to say to this beloved friend. I want to come back with a bang. With fireworks. Fireworks shot off by sharks.

Yeah, I'm on a couple drugs.

In keeping with the theme of feeling scattered and unsure and unable to truly acknowledge the gap, how about I just sprinkle out some of the more interesting moments of my stay in the hospital. When I have a solid footing on what actually went down, I'll let you know. But to be honest, that won't happen. I will continue to fling out random goodies and let you piece them together. That seems to be how I roll.

We're just going to skip over the intake process.

Skipping over the crying.
Skipping over the desire to escape.
Skipping over the fucked up idea that death looked preferable over being committed.

Onto the good stuff.

View from my hospital window. Through regular screen,
blinds that didn't adjust, and safety screen.

SAFETY:  They took all my drawstrings from my hoodies and sweatpants. I wasn't allowed to have tights or a purse with a long strap because I might be able to hang myself with them. Even the cords on the phones were no more than a foot long. Although, there was nothing to hang myself from. No curtain rods. No rods for hanging clothes in the closet. No hooks to put a jacket on. Even the shower head was a nub that stuck flush to the wall. The doorknobs were these cone-like things that were impossible to grasp. There were a few times when Dad visited that he legit couldn't get out of my room because he couldn't turn the damn knob. Nothing protruding out of anything anywhere.

I was fine with all that. Hanging myself was never really my style anyways. What pissed me off was when they took all my spiral notebooks and left me with just one that had no metal on it. And I was only allowed one pen! For safety reasons. Well, fuck that. I cannot feel safe unless I have at minimum 3 notebooks and 4 pens circling me. (Totally made that up, but that is what my kitchen table looks like 24/7. So maybe there is a grain of truth to it.)

My first 2 days of being there, I managed to steal no less than 6 pens from the nurse's station and group therapy sessions. I never ended up using any of them; I couldn't cheat on my precious pen. I became a klepto based on principle.

BONNY (name changed for anonymity): One day during group, we were discussing what types of feelings brought us there. Loneliness. Sadness. Drug abuse. Depression. Despair. Suicidal ideations. Homicidal thoughts. Say what now?! Enter Bonny.

Bonny was probably about 75 years old. She looked like the petite little grandma-type that you could picture  working on a puzzle to pass the time while her snicker doodles baked. Except for one little thing. She openly admitted that she was homicidal. She had a victim in mind. And a method.

I don't know what this says about me, but she was my favorite. She had this horribly dark sense of humor that, if taken the wrong way, could have earned her a reservation in the seclusion room. But it's Bonny, so everyone laughed.

Nurse: "Bonny, here's your nighttime meds."
Bonny: "Good. If you would have forgotten, I would have had to whoop you with my cane."
Everyone laughs.

Group Leader: "What's going on with you? What brought you to the hospital?"
Bonny: "Well, I'm bipolar and homicidal. Which means I'm not sure if I'm going to kill me or her (points to random patient)."
Everyone laughs. Including random patient.

The icing on the cake is that Bonny lives in a convent with her sister who is a nun. And Bonny openly admits that she likes to fuck with the other nuns, showing off her lack of vows to God by purchasing expensive items and flaunting them in front of those who took a vow of poverty.

Had I never gone to the hospital, I never would have been able to say that I engaged in friendly chit chat with a homicidal sister of a nun over lunch.

FAVORITE GROUP: My proudest moment of my visit had nothing to do with medications or breakthroughs or discoveries. It took place during the last group session on my last day before I was discharged.

Let me set the stage. We are discussing what and who has helped us the most during our journeys. Many patients are calmly and vaguely discussing their families, friends, and religious affiliations. But one patient is hardcore a "Jesus saved me, this I know" type. In the obnoxious, judgmental, scoff at my Star of David bracelet kind of way. Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with using your faith to help your recovery. In fact, I would encourage it. However, NEVER use it to jeopardize someone else's.

Then there is Jenny (again, name changed). She is quite, timid, and easily shut down by this loudmouth bitch. Jenny starts talking about how NAMI has helped her immensely. After waiting her turn, she tells the group about the volunteer opportunities, how they help the community, and how they probably saved her life. Jesus Bitch butts in. "I hate NAMI. I hate their core beliefs. They do NO good. All they care about is making money. Blah blah Jesus blah."

Jenny shuts down, bows her head in defeat, and the group carries on. Mary to the rescue! "Can I just say something real quick? I don't want the last thing people to hear about NAMI before they leave is how awful it is. I have seen firsthand how much those people care. Maybe Jesus Bitch had a bad experience, but everyone else needs to know that it is a safe place for them to go if they need help." Sadly, I did not refer to her as Jesus Bitch. My one regret.

Jenny perks up and Jesus Bitch turns red. We argue back and forth for a bit. She gets louder, angrier, and more irrational while I continue to calmly state my opinions and back them up with examples. I'm pretty sure at one point she even blamed NAMI for the lack of care that I had received prior to coming to the hospital. How? I don't even know.

"I don't give a fuck what you think. And fuck NAMI. I have Jesus backing me up for support. I don't need to take this." And out she walked. In my book, that was a win for me. A couple other patients gave me silent nods of approval, and the second half of group was far more pleasant. I stood up for Jenny, stood up for NAMI, and stood up for myself for once. Maybe I did find a little confidence that week.

*****

I am not yet ready to explain what happened from a medical or psychiatric standpoint, but I can with 100% certainty say that it was a good thing I went. Sure, I have had a few down days since coming home, but that's to be expected. The important thing is that I am safe again and willing to seek the help I need without being put in the hospital again, and that is something I don't think I would have reached by myself.

Thank you, Aurora.

Mad as a Hatter and Just as Sane

Maybe I cut my wrist one too many times. Maybe I talked about the relief I would get from killing myself a little bit too freely. Maybe I realized that it's not fair to make my friends and family responsible for protecting me from myself.

The truth is, I'm not safe by myself anymore, and I know it. Every time I am left to my own devices for more than 10 minutes, there is a damn good chance that I will be hunting down something sharp or challenging my garden of pill bottles to a staring contest. Even when I am not alone, a breakdown can strike with a snap of the monster's fingers. And it's happening more and more often.

So I need to leave. In less than five hours, I will be going with Dad to admit myself into a residential program at the hospital. For real this time.

This may be one of the first times I have set out to write a blog post and had no words. It's not a case of writer's block or being unmotivated. It's that I feel frozen in this space and time. A numbness beyond the lithium and seroquel and lamictal. A natural, self-protecting numbness against my fear of the unknown and leaving my not-so-safe comfort zone.

I can't picture leaving my home and moving into my room at the mental hospital. I can't picture not using Pinterest, TV, my blankets, and cleaning as distractions against my monsters when I am alone all day. I can't picture not using razors and calories to fight them off when distractions fail. I can't picture having coping mechanisms that are healthy and actually effective. I can't picture having to trust someone with my life besides Boyfriend.

This numbness will disappear in a few hours. I bet I'll start getting nervous after I take a shower and start picking out an outfit that suits the day, the day I admit that I am too crazy to live in the real world. It will really kick in on the car ride over when the reality of the situation sets in. Racing heart, sweaty palms, winking monsters. By the time I am left alone at my new home, my fucked up head will be spinning with a fight or flight reaction that will likely result in some sort of unwanted sedation.

I don't know if I will be there for a few weeks, a month or two. A part of me still feels like this is a bad dream. I am never leaving my home. But I also feel like this is my last day ever to sit on my couch, cuddle with my cat, sleep in my bed, write at my desk, look out my window, cook for Boyfriend. Make my own decisions. When I think about these things, I don't understand how everything I could need in the world isn't right here at my fingertips. Everyone and everything I love is outside those hospital walls. I will be locked inside, separated from them. How will that help? How will that not make things worse?

I guess I just have to let go for a little while. Open myself up to the possibility that this might be what's best. That I just might walk out of there healthier and happier than I have ever felt. Instead of adding some reinforced steel to my guarded walls, I should cut out a window to see the great opportunity that may be in front of me. I don't want to and I don't have to live the rest of my life this fucked up. And maybe, just maybe, I really do want my life to last longer than I think.

Most likely, this hope will disappear when time starts moving again. But at least I will be leaving my written record of the fact that there was hope in admitting myself to the hospital. I won't be able to reread this when I am there, but maybe someone else will. Maybe someone else who is struggling will read my other posts illustrating how horribly fucked I am in the head and think that if someone as crazy as me can take this step, then so can they.

Ok, now let's do this shit. See you in a month.

Fucked up Welcome Back Free Write

Where do I pick up after abandoning my blog for almost 2 weeks? Has it been two weeks? Honestly, I don't know even what day it is. I spent the majority if the day thinking it was Friday and even when I learned it was Tuesday, I continued on as though it were Friday. 

Something is seriously wrong with me at the moment. I can't really say "at the moment" considering this has been going on for the past several weeks, and years, before that. So I am going to free-write my scattered, fucked up, horrible thoughts here until the Lorazopam I popped kicks in and I can finally get a brief moment of peace before I crumble under the weight of myself.

If I had to sum it up in just a few words, those words would be "The monsters are winning." Yup, they are back full force, taking control over every mechanism that makes me me. They decide when I am fast, physically and mentally. Like today, my monsters thought it was fucking hilarious to watch me run around the house gathering up every piece of fabric for the laundry, rearranging the bathroom so it's more pleasant for the cat, and crawling on my hands and knees picking up lint so that the house would look perfect. Because a perfect looking house means that I'm not crazy. Haha, thanks, guys, but everyone knows damn well that fucked up. All this while making a list of things I don't have time to do today but can work on tomorrow. Like scrub the walls and paint the bookshelves and create some wall art for the bedroom with no money.

That was today, but most days the monsters shut me down. I spend way too much time crying under a blanket hating myself so much that it physically hurts. I dwell over the fact that I am ruining Boyfriend's life and he won't admit it. I beat myself up over everyone that I have left in the wake of my destruction. I hate the evil parts of the world that I am too incapicated to fix when I am depressed and only contribute to its downfall when I'm not. But what really makes me break down, really makes the tears flow and the hyperventilating to the point of passing is the fact that the little girls I nanny for, the little girls I love so fucking much it isn't even possible, won't remember who I am. If the monsters kill me, everyone else will mourn for the appropriate time, move on with their lives, and occasionally look back at the sordid part of their past that included me. Those girls won't. I still can't decide whether that is motivating to get better or pushing me further into the depression.

If the depression and the wild weren't enough, I'm also having some pretty fuck-tastic dissociation episodes. I don't know if that is the right way to describe it. The doctor I saw about it won't tell me. In a nutshell, the world around me disappears. I am trapped in a bubble of just me until my head and body start to separate. Then I am left with two options. I can either sit there and bawl like a baby in terror for hours until miraculously the world is in focus again. Or I can speed up the process and cut myself. I know, totally fucked up. Or maybe not. The doctor didn't think it was important enough to talk about.

I suppose it is worth mentioning that I'm off all my meds. They were numbing me. They were making it harder and harder for me to write, the one and only thing that I took any pride in before this whole ordeal. I believe that they were prescribed to me by doctors who really didn't give a shit about my well-being. They just wanted me to talk slower and sit still. So fuck em. Fuck the doctors who wouldn't give me more than 5 minutes to explain what was wrong. And fuck the meds they gave me to shut me up.

I came to this lovely conclusion after spending a bit of time at a temporarily unnamed mental facility. (When I reveal where this care came from, I want to do so in a more level-headed manner.) I admitted myself with great support from Boyfriend and Dad with the hope that I was finally going to get real help. That maybe someone would be able to explain to me what I was saying to them in confusion. Nope. I got in a fight with Dr. Narcissist and was discharged against medical advice. But more on that later.

So here I am. Free from Lithium. Free from Zoloft. Starting the cycle over again. Taking on the monsters that are stronger than ever with my bare fists and losing. Apparently there is never a good time to bow out graciously, or at least that is what I'm told. So I have to keep fighting for something I don't even believe in anymore. Hope is gone. Or I was naive to think it was ever there to begin with.

The Lorazopam has kicked in finally. I'm probably going to regret posting this later, but whatever. For now, maybe I can maybe enjoy a few moments of the day.