Friday, June 30, 2017

Stupid

The sad part was that I did not come to the hospital this way. I became this way once I knew I’d become part of a machine I couldn’t stop, once I’d realized the mistake I could not undo. The saddest part was that no one but my husband seemed to notice. No one noticed that I had come to the hospital quiet but scared, calm but hyperventilating a bit, with chest pain but not crying, with tunnel vision but no one asked, with a migraine, feeling as though the weight of the world was on my shoulders and it had become so heavy that I couldn’t take it off even if I had somewhere else to put it. I was sweating. I’d become agoraphobic to the point where I could not walk out the front door to check my mail. I have severe irritable bowel disease which has given me an irrational fear of eating almost anything. I came to the emergency room because all of this had become too much. I had my regular appointment with my psychiatrist in a week, but I didn’t think I could last that long. I didn’t know what “last that long” meant, all I knew was that I needed help because I was not living, just surviving. I thought maybe there would be someone at the emergency room that I could talk to, an objective conversation that could help me get through the next week until I could see my doctor. Those were the symptoms that brought me to the ER. That was the na├»ve thinking that brought me to the ER. Typing this out makes me feel stupid, but in that moment, when I saw the fear on my husband’s face when I said “I can’t handle this anymore,” I knew that I at least needed to do something for him, if not for me. I needed to do something.  I was stupid. 

________________________________________________________________________________

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

A Good Girl

I was met by a police officer inside the hospital who asked me, as though I were a petulant child, if I would go quietly with him or if I should be handcuffed.


________________________________________________________________________________

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Primum non Nocere

I said “I want to go to sleep and not wake up.” In retrospect, what I said was the equivalent to saying “bomb” in an airport. What I wanted to say was that I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up in that place, but in my home. However, according to the law, this doctor was obligated to involuntarily commit me to a psychiatric facility. Though this is the only thing that happened to me during this entire ordeal that was technically legal, I still take exception to the fact that I was deemed “involuntary” since I presented myself to the hospital voluntarily. Furthermore, I can’t imagine that anyone, whether they were having a panic attack or not, after having been shoved into what amounted to a jail cell, left alone, stripped of their own clothing and forced into ill-fitting paper scrubs (I am only 4’6” tall), ridiculed, baited, and harassed by security guards and left completely unmedicated for 19 hours, would have had any desire to go to sleep and wake up in that place, either.
________________________________________________________________________________

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Three Years Later

I think three years is long enough to resurrect a blog in the hope of being anonymous. Maybe? Of course, someone with common sense would simply start another blog. Or write the old fashioned way. You know, with a notebook and a pen. But that just ain't how I roll. Not to mention the fact that blogging has had its heyday, really, and it's probably time to put it to bed. But I'm supposed to write. It's part of my "therapy" my shrink says. Part of getting beyond those 9 days, 9 scars, 9 nightmares that are still playing out in my mind every night. I wasn't Susanna Kaysen, and it wasn't two years, but I was a girl interrupted, and I'd like to talk about it. Maybe. I think I do. Or I suppose I could talk around it. Or between the lines or the minutes or the hours. If nothing else, I am having loads of fun reading some of the things I've written here in the past, both published and unpublished, both silly and brilliant, back when my crazy was only in my head and not signed by the probate judge and a notary public. 

I am not a goddess from the machine anymore. I am a goddess who broke the machine, and I'm not quite sure I want to put it back together again. 
________________________________________________________________________________