Two weeks ago I called a mental health facility to begin the search for a new psychiatrist and therapist. The depression had gotten bad again and I knew it was leading me down a very dangerous path. Now, the facility is one that I'm not too fond of, but being a impoverished person, I had little choice. No other would do a sliding scale. No other offered medications at an extremely discounted price. So, bit the proverbial bullet and I called.
I was set up for an appointment at 9am on Friday, June 1st. "Arrive at 8:30 so you can do paperwork," I was told. I was fine that entire week, even up to the moment I arrived in the parking lot. Then I was pissy. Scared. Hopeless. Alone. But I trudged on. I walked into the building. I sat doing the paperwork fuming but in control. Called back to the screening office where a nice lady started asking me questions while an intern sat on the couch listening.
With Z, I could make statements about my suicidal ideation. I could tell him that the thoughts sat there in my mind every day, all day. But the probability to commit suicide depended on circumstances and moods. Most times those thoughts were a penlight, ok, an LED flashlight but other times it lit up like a Broadway neon.
I discovered that morning that perhaps I shouldn't be so open with such thoughts. I was deemed a suicide risk and admitted into the ward.This would be the second time in Crazytown in nine months. My last encounter with a mental ward was in September while in Texas.
I stayed through the weekend and Monday and released on Tuesday. I wasn't too thrilled about it. I kept to myself, hardly interacting with anyone. It's a defense now to be aloof. When I first saw the psychiatrist, I was unhappy, but she summed it up for me that help ease this violation of my freedom. She explained that since the hospital served the poor and indigent, the waiting list for psychiatric help was long. It may have been at least two months before seeing one and getting meds. This was the fastest way to help me. Two months more in the state I was in was going to end in a Broadway neon moment.
The meds are working. I'm ok. I have appointments this month with a psychiatrist and a therapist. I pray that I get good ones. I have no patience for anything other.
There was a moment in the ward on that first night there. As I lay there on my bed, I suddenly panicked. I thought about Emmaline. I thought about how I was suddenly gone. I had dropped her off at school with every intention of seeing her that afternoon. When I was admitted, she had no clue that those minutes in the car were to be last ones for the day and for who knows how long. I was overwhelmed with such sorrow, fear, and panic. And I knew that was what I would do to her if I killed myself. I don't like that feeling so I'm going to try to survive and eventually, hopefully, I'll thrive.