I was hospitalized Thursday and released this afternoon. I met with a second therapist on Thursday after taking the cap off the bottle of pills and pouring some in my hand before catching myself and talking myself out of it- mostly for my family. Paul walked me over to CAPS (he’d texted me after I missed practice on Wednesday asking if I was alright since I don’t miss regular practice without giving an explanation or asking permission first). This time around, I decided to be 100% honest with the therapist. She wanted to hospitalize me. On a scale 1-10, 1 being happy about life and 10 being I’m going to kill myself, I was at about a 6 when out in public but at a definite 10 within an hour of being alone. I was honest with her about that, then felt ashamed of myself for having those thoughts and feelings. She told me I was brave to be so honest, I could’ve lied my way out of being hospitalized, but I didn’t. I accepted that I needed help and went to the ER voluntarily, escorted by campus police and transferred to the Dixie Behavioral Unit in St. George via ambulance. I thought it was a bit much, but I guess I was a danger to myself. I tried to get out of the ambulance ride and ask a friend to drive me, but they wouldn’t let me. I guess they take these things very seriously, which is good. I was constantly watched while at the ER (spent several hours there) and couldn’t close the door to my room. I was okay until we got to the behavioral unit and they took my phone away. It was the last of all my things they took. That’s the first time I sobbed in front of strangers without even trying to hide it, I didn’t care anymore. I just wished I was dead. I had been told to change into a hospital gown at the ER then given scrubs to change into at the BU. They had to do a skin check to make sure I hadn’t cut or bruised myself in any way (I hadn’t), they thought I was anorexic because I’m so thin. But I’m not. They gave me a sleeping pill for insomnia and I slept well. In the morning they gave me lithium to quiet the suicidal thoughts and Prozac to stabilize my depression to a better mood/state. I stayed in bed the first half of the day and the nurses didn’t bother me, just did their 15 minute checks. I was a bit annoyed that again I couldn’t close my door. But I understood why. Then went to lunch where I discovered there were about 8 other patients in the mental/behavioral unit. I kept to myself, I certainly didn’t want to socialize. I hardly cared to be with even my best friends in that state.
Over the next couple of days I made friends with the other patients and discovered what had brought them there. I was the first suicidal one to get there this weekend. The others came Friday night. Saturday night group therapy was cancelled because the staff were so busy. The Unit was moved into the new section very recently to open up a couple more spots, that night we were at max capacity (18 patients) and it must’ve been overwhelming for them. A patient was becoming violent and had to be sedated and another had a stroke and a seizure. So understandably, no group therapy. I talked with a couple women that night who were also suicidal, one had to be talked down from shooting herself by family and the other overdosed on Benadryl on impulse. Her mom got to her just in time. At that point I was feeling almost back to my normal self and I was horrified to realize I would’ve either died or gone through what she had if I hadn’t reached out for help.
While the mental ward was quite the experience, I have to remember I did go voluntarily (even though voluntarily and involuntary mean the same thing once you’re admitted- you’re not going anywhere. Except the involuntary are REALLY not). And I am grateful I did because I honestly think I would be dead right now if I hadn’t. I struggled for a while because I felt weak and subpar. My childhood therapist ended up coming to see me last night (I got special permission). I haven’t seen her since I was 18, when the state money ran out for my twin brother and I (we were adopted from Utah’s foster care system). She reminded me that I was prenatally exposed to meth and alcohol, that this isn’t my fault. I’d forgotten that part and was blaming myself for not being strong enough to fix it on my own. A book I read said sometimes true strength is found in those that are willing to be vulnerable and ask for help. My therapist caught me when I told her what was going on then ended it with “but it’s fine” like I always say. She said, “but it’s not fine.” She’s right, it’s not. Hence why I needed to be hospitalized.
I learned several new coping strategies, got put on new meds that work far better than any I’ve ever taken before and I have been given the setup to succeed and make it through. The psychiatrist believes the suicidal ideation was caused by stopping my meds two weeks ago (I believed they weren’t working when in reality, they probably were. But it was so subtle I didn’t notice, then when the meds ran their course, my brain freaked out and I crashed and burned). Much to learn from, I’m grateful to be alive and well.
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