Friday, June 30, 2017


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 naïve 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. 


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