HOSPITALS: Things got bad

HOSPITALS: Things got bad

One night, I had had enough.  My legs were destroyed from all the cutting (which was hard to hide from my husband – he knew about my struggles, but I still didn’t want him to see the cuts).  Tim was at work and I couldn’t take it anymore.  I found a bottle of old painkillers that had been prescribed for Tim back in Colorado when he had hurt his back.  I was going to eat the entire bottle and then top it off with some alcohol in hopes that I would just drift into an eternal sleep.  I was thinking of nothing or anyone in those moments.  Just relief from bad spirits.  The only thing that saved me from carrying out the plan was my therapist who I had texted right before I started taking pills.  I got in about 6 of them before she called me back.  She told me to throw them away but I couldn’t do it.  She called 911 and an ambulance and police car showed up quickly.  They took the pills away.  They were some of the nicest people I had ever met and were gentle and understanding.  They talked to my therapist on the phone and asked what my diagnosis is – “Schizoaffective Disorder” she told them.  This was the first time that I had heard my diagnosis.  The CARE program is very careful about putting labels on people so since I had never asked, I was never told.  Also, my case was unusual, so I think they had a hard time coming up with a diagnosis. I certainly didn’t fit the stereotypical mold of schizophrenia. 

Anyways, that night I was taken by ambulance to the UCSD hospital emergency room in Hillcrest.  The medication I had ingested was expired so I was hooked up to blood pressure monitors, heart monitors, and other pieces of equipment.  I stayed for a few hours until all my tests came back ok. They talked about hospitalizing me that night, but there were no beds available so with an increased dosage of my medication, I was sent home.  I lasted maybe three more days until I was so depressed and in danger of hurting myself, when my therapist asked if I felt like I needed to go to the hospital, I said yes despite being terrified at what that might mean. 

So for the first time that year, I believe it was February of 2015, I was admitted into a locked ward in a psychiatric hospital.  It wasn’t a very pleasant experience – there was nothing to do.  I colored mandalas, watched tv, played games with some of the other patients, took lots of naps.  They fed us a lot and often.  Dinner was at 4:30 though, something I never got used to.  They check your vital signs CONSTANTLY (like even at at 6:30am while you are still trying to sleep).  The worst part is that they don’t let you have your cell phone.  I felt pretty lost without that.  My roommate was a grumpy old lady who would yell at the nurses about how corrupt the medical system was.  She was always friendly towards me at least.  After 5 days, and at my begging, they discharged me.  I felt great on the ride home.  I was loving seeing the trees, the traffic, the people! 5 days of isolation had me feeling like the most grateful person in the world to be alive now that I was free.