Room 604 - My Psychiatric Facility Stay ^ Part 2 ^

| PART 1 | Part 3 |

I was shuffled into a tiny room and told to take a seat. The woman left the room promising to be right back. As I waited for her return, I looked outside the door from the chair upon which I sat. A wall was covered in artwork. It wasn't the type of artwork you would typically purchase from a gallery or even Walmart. It appeared to be the type of art one would create in elementary school. I immediately stereotyped the facility. I envisioned patients walking around in their bathrobes and shouting words that made no sense. The type of scenes from movies.

Women walked by my room dressed normally. Each of them stared. From where I was waiting, I could see a room with three couches. Women were sitting. Some read magazines, others were writing, and I overheard a few talking about the "new girl". That was me I assumed. 


The tech finally came back in the room. I was instructed to step on a scale to record my weight. My temperature and blood pressure was taken. I was instructed to remove my shoes so the laces could be taken out. I went through the motions blankly. The tech joked the entire time. I wasn't sure if she was trying to make me laugh to keep me calm or if she found the situation funny. 

Next, I removed my jeans and socks. I was being inspected for open sores and tattoos. The tattoo on my left ankle was recorded. I put my jeans, socks, and laceless shoes back on. I then removed my shirt. More inspection. The tattoo on my back, wrist, and numerous scratches on my back were recorded. I faced the tech and was commanded to pull the bottom portion of my bra away from my body and to shake. She thought this was hilarious. She hinted that it resembled I was a dancer, a stripper, like I was putting on a sexy show for her. Since nothing fell from my bra I was allowed to put my shirt back on. 

I was led down a long corridor to room 604. 604. This was my new residence. For how long I was unsure. I prayed I would be alone, please God if you exist, let me get through this without a roommate. The door was opened and I stepped through. A young girl was lying on one of the beds reading a book. Fuck! I sat on the bed opposite the girl. It was sheetless and didn't fit the frame. The mattress was blue and plastic. The tech left the room and said she'd return with my belongings and linens soon. 


I introduced myself and the girl reciprocated. She went on to read her book and I was left in complete silence. I felt vulnerable and alone. I was out of place and scared. As time ticked by, how long I was unsure as there was no clock in the room, I read over the day's schedule. There were a lot of smoke breaks, meal times and group sessions listed as well as medication distributions. 

More time went by. Tick...Tick...Tick...


Where the fuck did the tech go? 

I finally got the nerve to get up and walk to the nurse's station where I saw my red duffel bag. I couldn't see the tech who was taking care of me and I began to sweat. Shift change. She was gone. A new tech picked up my bag in one hand and under her other arm were sheets, towels and a blanket. Back to room 604.

She asked if I was made aware of what I could have and couldn't have. I hadn't a clue. She pulled her hair back and fastened it with an elastic band. My bag was unzipped and my belongings were taken out one by one. 

Books, bras, underwear, pants, socks, shirts....these were all acceptable items and were placed on the shelf in front of my bed. 

Lotion, soap, q-tips, eye drops, a make-up mirror...all these items were taken away. I could ask to use them later but they weren't allowed to be kept in my room. 604. 

We made my bed with sheets too small for the blue mattress. The tech made due with what she had. I knew sleeping would be nearly impossible with the way she made the bed. With every toss and turn, those sheets were going to come undone and the blue mattress would touch my skin. This irritated me. 

The tech left the room as if I knew what to do next. I felt vulnerable. Afraid. Out of place.

"How long have you been here." I asked the girl.

"Over a week. What are you in for?"

"Depression. You?"

"I'm detoxing from meth and cocaine."

Whaaaat? I was told I would be matched with someone under similar circumstances, if I had a roommate at all. How could they put me in a room with a recovering addict? Again, I stereotyped.   

She went on to read her book as if I didn't exist. She kept to herself. I could handle that, I didn't envision making friends anyhow. I was here for a medication adjustment and I would be on my way. 

A smoke break was announced and my roommate left the room. I was alone once again. A knock came to the door. 604. The tech, one I haven't seen yet, brought me in a basket of flowers with a teddy bear fastened to it. I smiled for the first time that day. It was from the PPD Army. They were thinking about me. Empowering me to move forward. To heal. 

A nurse poked her head into the room. 604. I was asked to come with her. 

We went to a room filled with chairs. The entire perimeter was wall to wall mismatched chairs and couches. A TV hung from the wall in the corner. 

Questions were asked. The same questions over again. Didn't I already tell you that? Yes, I have suicidal ideations. Yes, I know how I plan to go. Can't I just see the psychiatrist? I'm supposed to see the psychiatrist so I could get some new meds. Where are my new meds? Will he dope me up so I can just go to sleep and forget this is even happening? Please? I want to go back to my room. 604. 604. 604. 

Elizabeth, the nurse, told me I would be seen by a psychiatrist within 24 hours. Follow the schedule until then. The tears welled up, I blinked, and they trickled down my face. 24 hours? That's not what I was told. I just wanted to be seen. I just wanted my meds. When would I be made comatose so I could sleep the next few days away?  

At this point I was angry. I demanded to use the phone. I phoned my psychiatrist and called him a liar, only I didn't get to speak to him. My message called him a liar. It wasn't the same. I wanted to lash out at him to get me out of here, I didn't belong here, why wasn't I being seen right away like he said?

I phoned my husband in hysterics. I told him to call my psychiatrist. Get me out of here. I don't belong here!  

"You can't leave." The nurse instructed.

"What do you mean I can't leave? I signed myself in. My psychiatrist said I could leave whenever I want!"

"That's not how it works..."

I felt betrayed. 

Once again I was by myself, which is what I wanted, but I didn't know what to do. I went to the community room and sat on a couch. Within moments a woman approached me. She introduced herself. She saw me sitting there, the new girl, and struck up a conversation.

She was there for depression too.

Happy became my tour guide. She pointed out the gym, the cafeteria, she showed me how to line up for meals and sat with me. I wasn't there to make friends yet I saw a friend in her immediately. 

Lunch happened. Dinner took place. Free time approached. There were no more groups that day. I came in too late and didn't attend a single one. I came to accept I wasn't going to be seen that day by a psychiatrist and I wasn't going to die because of it. Tomorrow would be here soon enough and then I would proceed with my treatment plan. 

Then the nurse pulled me aside. A different nurse. Another shift change had occurred. 

"We're placing you on in line of sight."

"What does that mean?"

"Suicide watch?"

"The fuck? Why?" The tears came. Surely I could talk my way out of this.

"Did you mention hanging yourself during your admission?"

"Yes, but I told the woman it was an ideation I had months ago!"

"It doesn't matter. Collect the things you'll need for the night. You'll be sleeping in the common area tonight."

Holy shit! I lost it. I had an emotional breakdown then and there. I stormed back to my room in a fury. 604. I went into the bathroom and closed the door to change out of my jeans into some more comfortable sweat pants. 

"Pam? I'm here to help you get your things!" I heard a voice saying from the other side of the door. 

I stormed out of the bathroom. "I'm not trying to hang myself with my jeans if that's what you were thinking..." and I grabbed what I needed and headed back to the common area.

604. 604. 604. 604. I just wanted to be back in my room. 604. But I wasn't allowed. My rights were gone. I had none. Nothing.

Suicide watch. 

The long night unfolded...

Therapy and the Bipolar Diagnosis

Today I had my first therapy session with a therapist I actually like. From the moment I walked through the door, I knew I was where I needed to be. 

Over-sized red leather couches beckoned to be sat on and music softly played, creating a sense of calm. The taupe walls and subtle scent in the air made me want to kick off my shoes, tuck my feet beneath my body on the red couch, and immediately pick up the book from the side table to become inspired. And I did all of that.

Bipolar II. That's me. My diagnosis. Now? I need to learn to accept this label and learn the coping skills it will take to get through the bad days; and there will be bad days. Many of them, in fact. 

I was handed a book today and I didn't shun away from it. I'm not a self-help book kind of girl. This, though, is a workbook. I want to share it with you because from what I can already see, I'm going to benefit from it tremendously.

Don't Let Your Emotions Run Your Life - - How Dialectical Behavior Therapy Can Put You in Control By Scott E. Spradlin, MA (Read chapter 1 for free here!)

It begins with assumptions about you, the reader. To sum it up it states that in the present time I am doing the very best that I can in dealing with my emotions, that I can do even better and become more skilled in dealing with my emotions, that I can try harder and be more motivated to change, that I may not have created all of my existing problems but I need to solve them anyway, that I can become satisfied with the way I deal with my emotions, and that I can learn new emotion skills and behaviors in all relevant contexts. 

I'm excited. It feels like a step in the right direction. 

I admitted to my therapist today that I have been toying with the idea of self-harming myself. Many people don't understand the gratification self-injury can bring. Depending on the method of self-harm (cutting, burning, hitting...) the injurer is able to find some relief, even if it is temporary.

At the present time, I scratch my back until it bleeds. I have marks all over my back that don't heal because I refuse to allow it to happen. When I feel anxious, nervous, bored, any of these emotions, I reopen old wounds and create new ones to reopen later on. As it turns out, I already do self injure.

I have toyed with the idea of cutting. Once, I even grabbed a pair of scissors and placed the metal against my flesh and dragged it across, but they were dull and barely broke the skin. I don't know whether I was more shocked that I actually went through with the act or that it didn't work.  


My therapist offered me two techniques to take the place of these actions and I want to share them with you. A very dear friend of mine suggested the first to me in the past. I was reminded of it today. 


Place a medium (in thickness) rubber band around your wrist and wear it like a bracelet. When the urge to self-harm presents itself, grasp the rubber band, pull and let go. The burn from the elastic snapping back into place will be a release of sorts. The other idea is to get an ice cube and hold it in the palm of your hand until it melts. Grab that sucker and squeeze until the cold burns right through you. 


My name is Pamela and I'm Bipolar. I've been hospitalized. I've had suicidal ideations. I'm working through it all one step at a time.

In This Moment

Part 2 of my saga will be written and posted soon, I promise (Part 1 is here). I feel like I just need to write about what's going on in my head in this very moment. 

I overslept today. My stupid phone. I use it as my alarm, but whenever I turn the darn thing off and back on (if it freezes, etc.), it resets my alarms. I have alarms set for waking and for taking various medications since they need to be taken at the same time every day. Anyhow, I overslept because the snooze settings were out of whack. This threw me into an anxiety tailspin. Not because I was going to be late for work. It was because I was going to be late for work and have nothing to do once I arrived.

I work in the construction industry and things are slow. The slow season hasn't even hit yet so it's about to get much worse.

When I got here I made my way to my boss's office. I kicked off my flip flops and sat Indian style on his couch with my Mickey Mouse coffee cup filled with the steamy brew. I told him I needed more to do, that I'm not busy enough.

I'm at work for 8 hours a day, 5 days per week but that 8 hours includes my lunch so I'm really only working 7 hour days. 

I let him know what happens when I'm not busy. That when I'm at home and there's down time, I'm doing crossword puzzles and word searches to keep myself outside of my head. My mind is a dangerous place sometimes, even with the medications. It's worse at work because the down time is practically all day long.

Yesterday, my psychiatrist recommended time off or better yet, temporary disability. I've already had 4 days off from being in the hospital and disability isn't going to pay me what I make here. I'm the bread winner and we're already struggling financially until my husband's financial aid rolls into our bank account. It's his final semester of school and once he's finished, he will get a great job with awesome pay (our hopes) and maybe I can cut down on my work schedule.

My boss gave me a few small projects in return. I appreciate that. Both will only take an hour tops but it's something. I even offered to be his personal assistant on the side but his life is so orderly, it wasn't necessary. 

At least I spoke up, right?

I go see a new therapist this afternoon. I'm excited about this. Not only is it going to be a place to vent but I don't have to pay for it. Le sigh of relief.
 

Okay, I feel a bit better now....

My Psychiatric Facility Stay ^ Part 1 ^

| Part 2 | Part 3 |

 
It all started with one tweet.

“More often than not I think about all the pills combined in the cabinet that can ease the pressure permanently.”

I was feeling down and out. It had been a rough night at home with the kids and as I was lying in bed, all I could think about was the abundance of pills in my kitchen cabinet. Why did I hold on to them? Because I have been on so many different medications, I thought I should save them just in case my doctor decided to try one or another again. That way I would save money. Prescriptions add up, especially if you take the pills by the handful each and every day.

I was encouraged to reach out to my doctor the following day, which I did, eventually. I was emotional; the tears were free flowing seemingly without reason. I made the call and was asked to come in to be seen. I hesitated. I didn't have the $35 it would cost for my doctor to, once again, suggest hospitalization. He would waive the fee I was told. I went in thinking he would call in yet another prescription to try and I would be on my way. 

I didn't have to wait long. After my blood pressure was taken (it was elevated) I was rushed in to his office. I admitted to having suicidal ideations when asked.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Yes, but every time I think about following through, I stop to think about what needs to be taken care of first. I don't have a set day because something always stops me."

"What is your plan?"

"I've saved all the pills you've prescribed to me over the years."

He scribbled down some notes. 


"Last time I felt like this, I thought about hanging myself. It seems like the quickest way to go." (this was approximately six months prior.)



More scribbling. 


He looked me in the eye and said I had exhausted all my options to be treated on an outpatient basis. 

"There are two hospitals I recommend. Shall I call to see if there is a bed for you?"

More tears.


We conference called my husband. He too agreed I needed hospitalization. I had to get better. Taking my own life was not an option. 


While my doctor called the hospitals, I returned to my office to take care of a few things. Why he even let me leave his office is beyond me. If I had my medications with me, I probably would have swallowed them in the parking lot. I don't know how I made it back to work, it was hard to see through the tears. It seemed I had an endless supply. It was like rain falling in sheets and the windshield wipers were stuck. I was a wreck. 


I received a phone call shortly after from my doctor. There was an available bed at Wekiva Springs Center in Jacksonville, FL., a combination rehab/mental health facility. Both my husband and I were assured I was signing myself in and could leave on my own accord. 


I called my mother to come pick up the kids. I went home to discuss the plan further with my husband and to help prepare the house for my absence; the kids were starting school on the following Monday (it was Thursday). I packed my bag with a few days' worth of clothes and some toiletry items for my stay at the hospital. We had a nice dinner together and I went to sleep. 


The following morning I took a shower, wrote a quick post to my supporters, hugged my husband and made the hour drive to Jacksonville; all while sending and receiving countless tweets and text messages from people I knew and didn't know, encouraging me...telling me I was doing the right thing.  

Get well! Heal yourself! We'll be here for you every step of the way! 

I parked my car, sent out one final tweet, grabbed my bag and headed toward the entrance. I did all of this with hesitancy. Why couldn't my doctor just prescribe me a new medication? Surely I didn't need to be hospitalized!

I opened the door and stepped through. 

"My name is Pamela Gold. I'm here to check in."

"Do you have an appointment, Pamela?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." 

Paperwork was processed. Questions were asked. Vitals were taken. I blew into a machine to prove I wasn't intoxicated. I was wanded for contraband. A tray of food was brought to me and I ate lunch by myself. I made a few last phone calls before my phone was locked in a safe. I used the restroom. 


When I exited the restroom, a woman was waiting with my bag in her hand to take me back. I figured I'd get my room assignment and see a psychiatrist to get that second opinion I was promised. I was going to get some new medication and I would attend some group therapy sessions as well as one on one sessions. I would do this for a few days and then return home to my family with a fresh start. I could do this.


The woman unlocked the double doors with the ring of keys she held. We proceeded to walk and the doors closed behind us with a loud CLICK. 


Life as I knew it was about to change for the next six days...

Inspirational Quote ^ Norman B. Rice

"Dare to reach out your hand into the darkness, to pull another hand into the light."
 

-- Norman B. Rice

This quote touches my heart.  I have been blessed with many people who have extended their hand deep into my darkness and pulled hard...harder...and yanked me from depths unknown, to see the glorious light shining from above. 

"The Cave" A big fat thank you to #PPDChat and The Band #WithTheBand

I love Mumford and Sons. The lyrics to "The Cave" hits home for me. For those of you who don't know who Mumford and Sons is, I urge you to listen to their music. To those of you who are already familiar, you understand. 

When I hear this song, I can feel the Postpartum Depression Army (#PPDChat) and The Band (#WithTheBand) yanking me forward, leaving the past in the dust. Their calls are loud and clear.

So today, I share Mumford and Sons with you and I thank you all for being there for me.

"The Cave"

It's empty in the valley of your heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you've left behind

The harvest left no food for you to eat
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see
But I have seen the same
I know the shame in your defeat

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

Cause I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I'll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind

So tie me to a post and block my ears
I can see widows and orphans through my tears
I know my call despite my faults
And despite my growing fears

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker's hand

So make your siren's call
And sing all you want
I will not hear what you have to say

Cause I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it's meant to be

And I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

~Mumford and Sons - Sigh No More~

Finding the Cheese

Lately I've been feeling like a lab rat. You know, the one who is placed within a wooden maze; who has to make his way through to the end and is rewarded with a block of cheese. This maze is a bitch but I'm happy to say that I'm part of the way through it. 

Many of you have read this post I wrote over at Band Back Together. I haven't even shared that post with my husband. Well, now he knows, sorry babe. So many of you reached out to me and urged me to get help. It took several days but I finally made the call and my life changed forever. 

I spent six extraordinarily long days in a psychiatric facility. I attended group sessions, I walked single file to and from meals, I went without shaving my legs or underarms, my shoe laces were removed from my Asics, my bar soap was kept in a bin in a locked room because it contained alcohol of some kind, my room door was opened every fifteen minutes for my entire stay to check on me and worst of all....I was placed on suicide watch for the first twenty-four hours. 

I also got to meet some wonderful women who I will forever hold in my heart.

I have a lot of story to tell. I feel like I am experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder as a result. I will never again take life for granted. It is precious. It is a precious gift. The precious present (Thank you Happy!). Over time my story will unfold. I feel the need to tell it, to share it, in hopes that it will save a life. It won't be easy to write nor will it be easy for you, the reader, to take in.

Thank you to all of you who have kept me close in your heart and prayers through this tough time. I love you all hard. Like whoa, hard. My old self is still inside of me screaming to find the cheese at the end of this maze and I will stop at nothing until I'm nibbling on it.

Checking In #PPDChat #WithTheBand

By the time this is read, I will be backing out of my driveway heading to check myself in to a psychiatric facility for intense care. I want to thank you all, the PPDChat Army, The Band...I don't know most of you and yet you reached out with love and care and encouragement. You helped to save a life. For those of you who have no idea what is going on, I will be back when I am well to share my story in hopes to save another life from this dreaded illness.

Famished - A Novel By Lauren Hammond

I have three words to express my feelings toward Lauren Hammond's new novel Famished.

Expect the unexpected!

Synopsis: There is no United States. There is no world. An asteroid has destroyed what the human race knew as earth and The Great Famine has wiped out most of the surviving human population. For the few remaining survivors, food is scarce-- precious--a luxury. A luxury that most humans can’t find.

Seventeen year old Georgina Carver is fortunate. She’s survived the destruction. She eats three times a day while the rest of humanity is plagued by The Great Famine. And she’s safe, hidden away in an underground colony with her family and several other families of survivors.

All of that changes the day she’s randomly selected to be a gatherer. Georgina must leave her safe yet simple world and venture out into a world unknown. A vast, dangerous, destroyed world that could literally eat her alive.

After Georgina is severely injured, her life begins to fall apart. She can’t remember how she got home or what happened to her while she was on the new earth. The boy she is crushing on avoids her and she keeps having visions that involve an unknown person with violet eyes.

As Georgina begins to unravel the truth, it doesn’t take her long to figure out that maybe her safe yet simple life isn’t that safe at all.

Some may compare this novel with others stating that it's a copycat. I beg to differ. The setting is unique. The descriptions place you within the world of the characters in this book; characters you will fall in love with and come to truly care for. Hammond isn't afraid to take a chance as the story unfolds, which is what I mean by expect the unexpected. 

Famished contains young love, family struggles, war, government, cannibalism...it has substance. This novel plants its feet in the literary world on its own accord. It is unlike other fictional pieces available. 

Get your copy of Famished today and be prepared for a journey you won't want to put down until you read the last sentence. Then give Lauren Hammond a shout on Twitter or Facebook to find out when the series will continue...  

I Think It's Over

I came to a crossroads yesterday. I'm thinking about giving up on blogging. At this stage in my game, I feel like I've won. There's nothing left to say.

Today? I decided that my depression lingers because I'm bored. My life? It pretty much happens in the mechanical sense. I could do it behind closed eyelids. This includes work. I need more stimulation, something new, a big project....or something. 

I've hit a dead end. I'm no longer at a four-way stop trying to decide which way to turn.

I still have some reviews that need to be written and posted. I may continue onward with the review portion of blogging because I have a handful of people who rely on me for that. 

Beyond that? Who knows...

Masquerade

I don't do anything anymore. I mean, I go through the daily motions of mundane living, shower, work, make dinner, do dishes, clean house, etc...but I only do those things because I have to. If I had it my way, I'd lie on my couch all day long and watch movie after movie or read my Kindle. Just like I have been every weekend for a few weeks in a row now.

I try to tell myself I'm not depressed anymore but find myself in tears every day.

I talk myself out of taking the antianxiety pill a second time each day even though I feel like I need it. 

The thoughts haven't left. The intrusive ones. I buried them in the back of my mind, in that place only I know about. Sometimes I visit that place and play with my buried treasures because "What IF...." 

I'm not happy. I'm good at disguising that, mostly.

I want so much for my family. My boys are growing up. I'm the mother of an almost 17-year old who stresses me out daily. I want him to have more than what I had. I want him to stop being lazy and get his ass in gear. It's time he really thinks about what he wants out of this thing called life. 

I'm also the mother of an almost 7th grader. He starts middle school this month. He'll be 13 next year. He's passionate about so many things and I want him to hold on to that passion; to covet it, savor it.

I'm also the mother to a 2 year old. Almost 2 1/2 year old. He's the one who changed me for the long haul. I don't blame him, no, never. I couldn't imagine my life without him. 

I'm a wife. Not a very good one lately. I know my issues are making it hard on my husband. I know he wants to fix me. Or rather, have the fixed me back. I'm unable to deliver, in more ways than one.

I can't imagine my life without this veil over my head anymore. This veil I want to shred to fucking pieces. It's become a part of me. It is me. I'm the veil.

Occasionally I get to peak out from beneath the veil and have a few days visitation without it lingering over me. It's a masquerade though. The costume is stripped and I am me again eventually. Only, I'm the new me. The one I hardly recognize.