Day Four - My Journey Through A Mental Health Facility

It was Wednesday June 3, and time for my 7:00p appointment with Tonya. She opens with the typical "So how are you?" and each session I normally put a lot of thought as to what I am going to say. I foolishly think I set the tone. I mean, it isn't like she doesn't already know how I am doing! I truly suspect the woman is psychic. And I don't believe in psychics. Last session she asked 'the question' and all I said was, "I'm not." I had thought about what to say but really didn't care what answer to give that week, so I was just kind of flippant. The woman still got me to talk meaningfully for 60 minutes though. June 3, I thought and thought, but hadn't come up with the exact words yet. You see, I had a plan. I knew I had shut down and was beyond help. I had begun to willingly and quite easily lie to the people I love and count as my support group, or I just ignored them. I didn't want them to know. I didn't care anymore. It became none of their business in my mind. Why bother when I was failing so miserably? I haven't ever willingly lied to my support group. Ever. But Tonya was the only one left that I was being honest with (well, except she had no idea I was lying to everyone else, but in my defense, she never asked, so maybe she isn't psychic after all). I knew the choice of words was paramount to my plan. Anyway, I went to the session to slyly try and get her to help me figure out how to get permission from my children to die. Now, I think I am pretty smart, and was convinced I could fool the best therapist I have ever had in my life to get the answer I needed, even though she seems to see right through me with a single glance. Sometimes I won't look at the woman. She reads my mind! I thought I could trick her into slipping up and giving me a way to gain approval from my boys to die. I rationally know suicide is selfish. I know it permanently hurts those left behind. It is a huge reason I fight as a mental illness advocate. However, I had played my last card. I asked my children for permission to die and they said no. And besides, in my head, I wasn't suicidal. I just wanted permission to die.

So we sat down, she looked at me, asked 'the question', and I will be damned if out of my mouth popped the words, "I think I need hospitalization, but I can't afford it." I swear to you my mouth dropped a bit and I thought, "WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SAY?" Tonya didn't immediately tell me how silly of a reason lack of money was not to admit myself, but thanks to her, I did end up admitting myself to Mesa Springs in Fort Worth, Texas, early afternoon on June 4. I agreed to it midway through the session and went home with a game plan to get things in order within 24 hours so I could go. During my 90 (I got 30 free minutes that night) minute session with Tonya, I kept telling her I wasn't suicidal, but I did have one heck of a fool proof plan I was happy to share and thought pretty highly of myself for thinking of it. Why not share? I wasn't suicidal. She didn't challenge me. Instead, she helped me to admit to myself that my preoccupation with gaining approval to die would eventually become greater than the need of my children's approval. And she isn't as smart as she thinks. I know now she made it seem like my idea, but she led me right to the watering hole. She never once told me, "Yes, you are suicidal." And, even though I just didn't care, I did obviously care enough to not want that preoccupation to become true. That is just how good she is. Or maybe she is the sly one??? Hmmm...

I was inpatient for 13 days. The first night home, June 16, I knew I wanted to blog about this, but had no idea how. How could I explain a journey from void to hope and make sense enough to touch someone else? I read a book that Tonya brought to me while there (told you she is awesome). The author tells the story of feeling inferior about giving a speech in which the other speakers are all CFO, CEO, COO types. In discussing it with her husband, she told him of a time where she failed miserably giving a speech that included other peer speakers instead of speakers she felt had more talent than her. I related to that. I felt like a failure and I felt inferior in life at the point when I read her story. All I could think was, here I am a blogger and mental illness advocate that just blogged about stopping suicide, trying to set an example and help people, and I am hospitalized! What else speaks complete failure? So, after reading her story again on my first night home, I made a terrifying decision. I decided to open up to YOU and publish my journal entries - word for word, grammar and spelling errors included (wow, that grates my nerves). The thought causes me to sweat even as I type now. BUT, in defiance of the shame, irrationality, doubt, self hate, irritability, psychosis, confusion, mania, hypomania, depression and anything else mental illness causes, this journey will now become yours if you so choose to read. My hope is you can see that 'broken' can become something 'much less than broken' again. I refuse to use the word 'fixed'. That implies 'works like new' and that was over the second I took my first breath with my childhood background. I won't use the word 'balanced' either. I still got some work to do. So, this is my journey. I do not wish it on a single person in this world. Even my two enemies. Though I say it becomes 'yours', your journey of hospitalization may (hopefully) never happen and if it does, it will be different. But I am now so convinced we ARE each other's best support system, that I am both nervous and excited to share.

So, before I let you loose, there are three things you need to know:

I was the victim of a crime on May 8, 2014. I can almost give you the time but I won't. It is etched in my mind and behind my eyes at random times during the day forever. It changed me. Laura was stolen from me without permission (not that anyone would have given permission).

Bipolar 2 and Generalized Anxiety are not my only diagnoses. I was diagnosed with PTSD December 2014, directly in relation to May 2014's events.

I made three consistent edits to my entry that were necessary:

- details of my suicidal ideation and plan are replaced with the words "-suicide trigger-".

- details of the event on May 8, 2014 are replaced with the words "-event trigger-".

- real names are not used, however, look to the top of the blog. There is a tab called 'Glossary' and it gives the name and relationship to me. Use it if you find the blog confusing. If I would have ever thought I would share this with the general public, I would have done a better job of describing each person!

DAY FOUR SUMMARY - Once again, I have an entry with nothing positive. I was halfway through my first hospitalization by this point in 2011 and I haven't even made it to a group yet at Mesa Springs. My anger is growing. The hate of myself. Feeling like having bipolar disorder makes me an unacceptable human being. I did go ahead and look forward in my journal. I attend first group tomorrow, so stick with me.


JOURNAL ENTRY - Sunday, June 7
I can't stop being angry and it makes me angry that I am so angry but too stupid to stop being angry. That is what being a fucking bipolar will do to you. Fuck up your mind so you cant think through the simplest of equation. Become bipolar and 1 + 1 becomes anything but 2. You will multiply when divide and convince your brain it is just fucking with you. Math becomes English. English becomes French. Light becomes dark and dark stays dark. FUCK. I am a bitch that shoots through anything that touches me. Antithesis Midas. This is just so fucking unfair. Another nightmare so Kennedy upped the Prazosin. I can't go much further. I think he said the max is 5. It isn't going to work. What am I going to do. I cant live like this and I cant avoid sleep. I slept all night again. What is that 3 days? 4. Dunno. Don't care. Just I had another nightmare. My life was fucking stolen from me. It isn't fair. -event trigger- And still, never a word of I am sorry? Aren't Christians supposed to care when -event trigger-. I want to puke. Never that was wrong. Never you didn't deserve that. OH and lets not let yourself forget Laura your worthlessness that it was my big mouth that made her look bad. The devil tarnished the archangel's halo. Yep, that would be me. Devil incarnate.  And then that email. I blew up at Josiah about it. I couldn't control my anger and I couldn't control the screaming. Unless we were the normal kind of kid fighting, I have never been angry at him. He is my rock. The only one besides Ian ready to listen and comfort. All he wants to do is help and all I did was scream. How fucked up is that? I have a new roomie. Stacey. We told each other to not take it personal if we didn't talk to each other and then in the room she had me crying I was laughing so hard. Already glad she is my roomie. Oh my God. I was really laughing. Besides Facebook group I never laugh anymore. You can't help but laugh in group. I love Linda, Mason, and Arthur so much. Especially Linda. That girl just makes me feel special even though I don't deserve it. And if Mason could get any smarter. I would have to kill him, except the Smeagles of course. He does have that disease going against him. I hate. I literally hate. I hate. FUCKING HATE. I understand that -event trigger- but how could I be betrayed by her. I hate. I don't hate, but I hate her. I fucking hate her. Death is too good. Slow. Maiming. Trickling blood but never dying. PAIN. ETERNALLY. Torture. Never ending. This hate consumes me. My thought. My taste. My smell. Consumes. Don't try and blame bipolar on this one. Life has been a special hell for me now. Bipolar and -event trigger-. Already fucking suck at coping in the world like a real human. Now this. WHY FUCKING GOD DAMINT WHY? WHY THE FUCK? I AM BITCH CONSUMATE. Just -suicide trigger-. I have exactly 3 brothers left out of this mess. 3 nephews. NO cousins. NO Uncle Jeff anymore. I will never see him again. Never. He will die and it will continue to look like I am the fuck up. That is how fucked up I am. LOSER. BITCH. FUCK UP. So fucked that yes my minds soup de jour of the night was flashback time. Guess that slot of punishment got filled quickly. It seems to love to be featured. FUCK THE FUCKING VALIUM. I couldn't wake. Kicking. Screaming. Crying. Punching. Trying to find a blade to cut. Just nightmare over and over. FUCK PRAZOSIN. Black. Blasphemous sin. Raging inferno. A never ending tsunami. I am ready to snap the fucking head off the next person that walks in this damn room, shove it down their throat, kick the hell out of what is left and enjoy every minute of it. It can be her. I tried to refuse morning meds. It isn't fucking working. I got spoken to like a first grader. I refused breakfast. I refused morning group. What the fuck for? I AM FUCKING BIPOLAR. DO US ALL A FAVOR AND EXTERMINATE ME LIKE THAT ROACH THAT I AM. SQUASH ME FLAT. Unfucking fortunately my head will survive for however long it takes those suckers to die. SO FUCK ROACHES. MAKE ME A SPIDER AND EXTERMINATE MY FILTH AND DISGUSTEDING BIPOLAR ENTITY. Except the boys are still convince they need my diseased mind. I cant even be smart enough to get them to see how much better off they would be. I NEED THESE FUCKING MEDS TO WORK OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL GET OUT AND -suicide trigger-. I am wedged. Pillow up. Writing like I am in first grade cuz it is hard to write and hide. But hidden is what I must be to protect from my insanity. Protect. Withdrawal. Admit defeat. Defeated bipolar bitch. Put it on my headstone please. Here lies the stupid, defeated bipolar bitch that sure as hell took her time making the world a better place. But thank God she finally did it. Now we can celebrate. HA. Mason would tell me I am having a fucking pity party. He just doesn't know me well enough yet to realize how I know the truth about myself. This is so fucking unfair that I am so pathetic. I FUCKING HAVE PTSD thanks to May. There I FUCKING SAID IT. HAPPY YOU FUCKING DIAGNOSIS. I am not evil enough to have just bipolar, I have to be worse for everyone and have PTSD too? Strike me with the cancer I deserve and just get rid of me please. I don't know. Do I have it? Another reality check? Part of the ultimate plan to kidnap my reality and make me never want to come back. Maybe that is what I can do. But how do I know which one is best? Which will cause the people the least pain? The more I can save the better. GOD DAMNIT. I am so confused. I wish that fucker would just actually speak to me. But then, how would I know if he was telling the truth? Is it possible to give a lie detector test to someone in my head? And would it be reality? Or would it be another of his tricks. I am slipping.................so fucking worthless and weak. It isn't that I don't want to get better. I can't. All that will happen is the mood shoe will drop again. More casualties. I just don't deserve life. I don't manage bipolar. It manages me. God Damn valium. Sleep. Wonder what the flavor will be tonight.