Processing...
Thirty-three days ago I was at a crossroads.
My hands full of pills, shaking under the weight of knowing there weren't enough to make the pain stop. As I sobbed into the steering wheel, I knew I had two options.
1. I could continue to struggle and silently plot my own death. Save my note for another day, another miserable night of my thoughts endlessly bouncing through my head, gaining momentum the more I shout at them to just stop.
2. I can ask for help.
For whatever it may turn out to be worth, I owe my roommate my life. He sat with me and knew exactly what to say.
What miraculous words did he utter to change my distressed mind?
None.
He sat by me in silence, waiting with me for the panic to subside.
"It's alright. Let's just go upstairs."
Okay.
After what felt like hours of chain smoking in the frigid January cold, I finally found my words.
"I think I need to go to the hospital."
"Right now?"
"Yeah... if I don't do it now, I never will."
"Okay. I'll get my shoes on."
We got to the ER at around 2AM. I finally found myself in a bed at a private behavioral health hospital at 7:30AM. I can't even remember a time that I have ever been so exhausted. You almost begin to view your life in the third-person, retelling your wish for death over and over to each new face that processes you for intake. You become numb to it, like you're summarizing someone else's life; someone else's history and pain. Not a single face shows a reaction of shock to the words that tumble out of your mouth, just a nod as they quickly jot down your symptoms. You are a diagnostic. You are a summary of numbers, tallying up to confirm the severity of just how dead you really want to be.
It's in these moments that you realize you could have just eaten a fucking tide pod if you had been thinking it through far enough. Damn.
I really did enjoy this hospital, though. I've been in some that force you to attend groups and activities, and your exhaustion was never a good enough excuse to get out of them. This place was different, though. They understood that dealing with your darkest thoughts and confronting them daily was tiring enough. They knew that different medications and dosages might make you sleep all day. Their patience with me as I slowly leveled out into a more manageable state made a lasting impression on me.
It was a long week of ups and downs, but I made it. Spending seven days in inpatient care, I grew accustomed to the feeling of community as I was surrounded by kind, loving people that all understood me in their own way.
I began partial hospitalization 2 days after being discharged from inpatient. I saw some familiar faces, which calmed my anxiety. Meeting new people and starting new routines typically sends me into a panic on the spot. But I continued attending, talking to new people, and getting comfortable. The high of feeling "normal" for a few days had already begun to wear off, and I was starting to struggle a bit more every day. Everything was manageable, and after my tenth day of partial, I felt I was ready to step down to intensive outpatient (IOP), which meant only 3 hours of therapy every day rather than the usual 6.
I really do think I handled the first few days of IOP rather well. But as I started facing harder truths, and more uncomfortable feelings, I found that my usual vices and avoidances weren't going to make the cut. Self-harm isn't a safe option, and could send me right back to inpatient. Drinking will only make it worse. Mixing THC with my meds could send me into psychosis or cause seizures. I can no longer run from my feelings. I have to face them and let them exist. I just wish it weren't so miserable. I've had nightmares 3 nights in a row, and the lingering fear is eating me away. Each night, they get more vivid. I've dreamt my mom is trying to kill me. I've dreamt that my abusive ex had somehow managed to disguise himself as my current boyfriend, and the only way I figured it out was by his voice. Everything in my head is running amuck. My thoughts are running up and down the corridors of my mind, banging on the walls and slamming doors, screaming at me and begging me to run. And yet, I have to just sit with them.
I guess, really, this blog will become the story of how I learn to tolerate the noise.
My hands full of pills, shaking under the weight of knowing there weren't enough to make the pain stop. As I sobbed into the steering wheel, I knew I had two options.
1. I could continue to struggle and silently plot my own death. Save my note for another day, another miserable night of my thoughts endlessly bouncing through my head, gaining momentum the more I shout at them to just stop.
2. I can ask for help.
For whatever it may turn out to be worth, I owe my roommate my life. He sat with me and knew exactly what to say.
What miraculous words did he utter to change my distressed mind?
None.
He sat by me in silence, waiting with me for the panic to subside.
"It's alright. Let's just go upstairs."
Okay.
After what felt like hours of chain smoking in the frigid January cold, I finally found my words.
"I think I need to go to the hospital."
"Right now?"
"Yeah... if I don't do it now, I never will."
"Okay. I'll get my shoes on."
We got to the ER at around 2AM. I finally found myself in a bed at a private behavioral health hospital at 7:30AM. I can't even remember a time that I have ever been so exhausted. You almost begin to view your life in the third-person, retelling your wish for death over and over to each new face that processes you for intake. You become numb to it, like you're summarizing someone else's life; someone else's history and pain. Not a single face shows a reaction of shock to the words that tumble out of your mouth, just a nod as they quickly jot down your symptoms. You are a diagnostic. You are a summary of numbers, tallying up to confirm the severity of just how dead you really want to be.
It's in these moments that you realize you could have just eaten a fucking tide pod if you had been thinking it through far enough. Damn.
I really did enjoy this hospital, though. I've been in some that force you to attend groups and activities, and your exhaustion was never a good enough excuse to get out of them. This place was different, though. They understood that dealing with your darkest thoughts and confronting them daily was tiring enough. They knew that different medications and dosages might make you sleep all day. Their patience with me as I slowly leveled out into a more manageable state made a lasting impression on me.
It was a long week of ups and downs, but I made it. Spending seven days in inpatient care, I grew accustomed to the feeling of community as I was surrounded by kind, loving people that all understood me in their own way.
I began partial hospitalization 2 days after being discharged from inpatient. I saw some familiar faces, which calmed my anxiety. Meeting new people and starting new routines typically sends me into a panic on the spot. But I continued attending, talking to new people, and getting comfortable. The high of feeling "normal" for a few days had already begun to wear off, and I was starting to struggle a bit more every day. Everything was manageable, and after my tenth day of partial, I felt I was ready to step down to intensive outpatient (IOP), which meant only 3 hours of therapy every day rather than the usual 6.
I really do think I handled the first few days of IOP rather well. But as I started facing harder truths, and more uncomfortable feelings, I found that my usual vices and avoidances weren't going to make the cut. Self-harm isn't a safe option, and could send me right back to inpatient. Drinking will only make it worse. Mixing THC with my meds could send me into psychosis or cause seizures. I can no longer run from my feelings. I have to face them and let them exist. I just wish it weren't so miserable. I've had nightmares 3 nights in a row, and the lingering fear is eating me away. Each night, they get more vivid. I've dreamt my mom is trying to kill me. I've dreamt that my abusive ex had somehow managed to disguise himself as my current boyfriend, and the only way I figured it out was by his voice. Everything in my head is running amuck. My thoughts are running up and down the corridors of my mind, banging on the walls and slamming doors, screaming at me and begging me to run. And yet, I have to just sit with them.
I guess, really, this blog will become the story of how I learn to tolerate the noise.
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