Death's Waiting Room

Eight months ago my PTSD got the better of me and I ended up waiting it out in a crisis unit for the new therapy and medications to kick in.
I spent my days waiting.
Waiting to die.
Waiting to live.
Waiting until I made up my mind.
While I waited, I did what I always do when I'm distressed: I wrote.
I didn't share this information with anyone but family and three close friends because I was afraid of being judged or looking bad. There is such a stigma surrounding mental health in this country.
I want to share my experience because I want other people who can relate to read it and get help, or at least feel like they aren't alone. I mean, I've got the handy excuse that I'm an artist and a writer, and that we are supposed to be just a little bit crazy, but what about everyone else?

After this, I will be doing a series on Dialectical Behavioral Theory, the therapy that is helping me to improve the quality of my life.

October 2013...

Day One

On the weekends here they aren't particularly attentive so far as the timeliness of food and medications go.

The nurse gave me my morning meds around eleven and I have no idea when lunch will be except obviously not at noon.

Doesn't matter much.

Dead girls don't need lunch.

You may well wonder what a place like this is like.

Just at the moment there's a guy on the phone out in the hall who has a voice just like Barry White's. It's amazing. Only probably he says "fuck" more often than Mr. White.

The crisis unit a strange cross between a homeless shelter and a nursing home, really. and a nuthouse, I suppose, since they have so much group therapy and the nurses and the shrinks on hand. It's always cold, and my blanket is one of those thin ones they hand out on airplane flights.

They've upped the dosage on my anti-depressant and I have a counseling appointment on Monday.

It doesn't sound as if anyone has actually tried to kill themselves while in care here in a long time, if ever.

They've got my meds, so there goes the easy way out.

I'm keeping a journal as the lady who checked me in suggested. I'm recording my most horrible thoughts. I know I need to stop, but the suicidal stuff doesn't ever seem far from my mind. The thoughts are intrusive and seem to have no connection to the woman in glasses with the greasy hair hunched over in her chair. She looks like a stranger. Her hair hangs down in her face because she can't look anyone in the eyes.

I have spent most of my day sitting in a chair staring at a spot on the carpet. It's a blue-green outdoor-type carpet room, there's a framed print of a putty-colored mountain scene on the wall. The furniture, two twin beds, two chairs, two dressers, a wardrobe and a desk, are all made of heavy blonde wood. The back wall is dominated by two picture windows with vertical blinds looking out on a small yard covered in pine needles. Beyond that there is the sound of traffic.
with a geometric pattern to it, and when I stare the entire thing undulates like the ocean floor. The walls are a light putty color. In my 

They came and woke me up around 11:30, telling me it was time to go eat lunch. Then a lady brought me to this room and left me sitting in a chair, telling me she would come and get me when it was time for lunch.

I sat there eying the carpet until it shifted beneath my gaze, going deep inside where it felt safe and familiar.

An intercom called residents to lunch, but I stared at the floor and waited for the lady to come back. Lunch is pointless when you're waiting for an opportunity to kill yourself.

I don't understand the routine here. There are four "groups" a day that I'm required to attend, but I don't know when or where. Maybe they'll announce them on the Intercom, like they did for lunch and the "Group Walk." So far, I've had lunch (beef rolls, coleslaw, and chips with a glass of kool-aid. I thanked the cook and cried a little telling him that the coleslaw tasted like my Mom's.), got a tour (hallway, bathrooms, showers, laundry room, tv room, kitchen and dining area. Patio for the smokers), had a nurse "take" my "vitals," spoke with a "Mental Health Worker," wandered a little, napped a little, but mostly just sat in that chair. They've given me paperwork for health insurance and a number for a counseling office near my sister's house. I've filled out forms releasing my information to doctors, detailing my physical and mental health history, and signed a contract promising not to harm myself while in their care. I wonder what happens if I go back on my word... I try to think as little as possible, but the Mental Health Worker gave me a journal and told me to write in it, and I can't resist bleeding my life across a blank page.

It's cold in here and all I have are the clothes I came in wearing. Luckily I can wrap my airplane quality blanket around my shoulders.

All I know about tomorrow is that I'm supposed to make that counseling appointment, call the health dept about getting insurance, and possibly see the psychiatrist. My treatment plan involves lowering depression and suicidal thoughts, increasing coping skills, setting up community supports and straightening out my meds.

I don't know how to explain why I feel so bad. There's nothing new here. Problems with getting a good job, a decent vehicle, getting to see and talk to my kids, letting another apartment go and moving into another basement. All I can think is that the repetition is getting to me. Maybe something's triggered the PTSD, but I just have no perspective this time.

I agreed to come here because I couldn't tell them without a doubt that I wouldn't try to kill myself the moment my sister wasn't watching me. I've been lying awake thinking about killing myself. My sleeping pills come in thirty 25 mg tablets. Takes only one bottle to kill yourself. You eat a light snack an hr beforehand, grind the pills into powder and swallow it all at once. Using a plastic bag is a sure thing, but I couldn't get past the creepiness of that. You may suffer convulsions, vomiting, irregular heart-beat and ultimately death. I lie awake trying to decide if I would really kill myself, trying to remember why. Don't want to die. Don't want to live. Tired. Don't feel worth the effort. My life spins around in pointless circle, and the bottle never points directly at anything. I'm not sure how to describe how I'm thinking. Not sure it constitutes actual "thought."

The lady I talked to today said that we can manifest things in our lives just by thinking them, but that sadly most of us waste time and effort manifesting only negative things. She told me to stop thinking about suicide and start thinking of ways to take care of myself. I'm not as sure about her theory as I have been in the past. It's starting to feel as if I've been deluding myself. It seems as if all these positive platitudes have only landed me right back where I started from. I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong. I've tried my best and it just hasn't been enough.

I think I'm done.

My sister and her husband came with their kids after dinner, bringing my clothes and my vitamins. They confiscated my vitamins.
I don't have deoderant, a toothbrush, or a hairbrush, but I don't much care. Dead girls don't care if they look like beauty queens. It was nice to see the baby, and my other niece uncharacteristically held her arms out for a hug.

I wish I could feel something. This place is so cold. They're only giving me one pill at a time here, and they're watching me swallow it.
There's a sharp wire sticking out from the broken catch on the handle of my purse.

I signed that agreement not to harm myself, but I can hardly look these people in the eyes because I just don't know if I can keep it. I want help. I don't want help. I just don't know."

~Day 2~

8:30am.

I think I just saw the psychiatrist.
Dr. Somebody.
She came and got me out of bed. I followed her back to her office, greasy-haired and dry-lipped, wiping sleep out of the corners of my eyes.
Probably the fifth person in 24hrs asking me my history and why I want to die. Also if I'm hallucinating. They all want to know if I'm hearing or seeing things.
Well, obviously. I can see and hear THEM well enough.
She asked me when was the last time I was ever happy, then started writing in her notebook as I stared blankly at her, trying to figure that question out.
I smiled a little, remembering that it was just last week Thursday when I was meeting my boyfriend for dinner and I didn't know yet he'd given up on me.
The tricky part is that I'd been depressed ever since my car broke down and it dawned on me that I could not afford to replace it. And no car would mean no job and no apartment and the cycle perpetuates itself. I was just sitting around my old apartment waiting for my Mom to go back to Florida after her visit so I could kill myself. I'm ashamed to be so hopeless and helpless about my circumstances, but I've lived all my life with shame and at least it feels familiar.
That lady I spoke with yesterday told me that I've experienced three of the top stressors a person can deal with in their life, that she felt I was just a little overwhelmed right now. Losing a home, a job, and a loved one. That last part is bullshit, though. I lose my home and my job over and over again. I'm not sure if anyone I've ever dated has loved me exactly, and I haven't lost my boyfriend per say. He's still my friend...
The first meeting of the day should be soon, and they expect me to go.

Sat around the TV Room for about half an hr waiting for that meeting to start. Then someone turned on The Green Mile. I had to leave the room. I've got my own mile to walk.
I notice that all the female residents seem to have pieces of me. My Audrey Hepburn shirt on an older woman with silver hair and no teeth, my PTSD in my roommate with her rainbow-striped pajamas. My blue striped socks on the feet of the woman wearing scrubs with the 80's hair. Suicidal tendencies. Anger issues in the man with tattooed sleeves. Depression in the man from Africa, muttering to himself that "Dey say I depressed cause a trauma from war. Das bullshit.  Give me a gun,  put me back in dat war and somebody shoot me, I shoot dem . End of problem."
I keep on eating as if I have a reason to.
I even took a shower today.
I'm trying to take up the least amount of space possible in this world. Become invisible. Forget they ever told me I was born. Stop pretending to live. I'm not, really. In time I will fade into the trees and the sky and my existence will make sense.
It's hard not to act as if everything's fine so that they'll let me go long enough to get a bottle of pills back into my hands .

I don't understand what this place is about. Some of these people are just homeless. Some schizophrenic.
I feel no anxiety here at all.
Nothing to fear any more than myself.
I feel like this is Death's Waiting Room. Killing the hrs till it's dark and people are asleep and then see if I can rip the skin open over my wrist. It feels good to focus on something constructive like that. This is something I can do right. It reminds me of Brittany, a girl at the juvenile detention facility where I worked, who explained how she used to be very good until she realized how much faster things happen for you when you're bad. Need to talk to the counselor, your caseworker, your Mom? Pitch some kind of a bloody awful fit, she said. Hurt someone else, or hurt yourself. I'm not doing any of this on the say-so of a 14yr old juvenile delinquent. It's just that it's reminding me of that conversation just now.  I don't want any attention, don't want everyone to know. All I know is that I need to stop needing so much, stop asking or expecting so much.

I thought this group would meet and we would discuss our daily goals. Mine is to stop thinking of killing myself and get whatever help they can offer. The thought that there might actually be help for me strangely doesn't make me feel any better. Nothing touches me.
My children need me but I can't be there for them. Can't call them. Thinking of them makes me feel very little at the moment besides hopeless and sad. I've stopped seeing myself ever getting a good job, a home I can keep, a car that will run, or friends that will stay close. I don't see myself ever finishing the novels. I don't see myself ever having any extra money for paint and canvasses, or selling any paintings anywhere. I have no resources, or I'm just lazy and worthless. It's what I really believe. I'm tired of pretending any differently.

There's a blind or a strip from a blind missing. They're looking all over the rooms for it. I find I'm eyeing the blinds and seeing that the looped pull cord would work like a noose. With the pills I could have gone quietly. Now I'm trying to think what else I can do.

My sister packed me some dark chocolate sea salt caramels. I was going to stick with one a day to look forward to, but that doesn't make sense in this context. I think of eating them instead of being dead. Dead girls can't eat dark chocolate sea salt caramels.

Maybe I am here because I'm lazy. I love my job. I wasn't doing quite as well as they would have liked, but I was going to be so impressive that they were going to beg me to stay on. I did a fantastic job last Saturday, and that was even after my boyfriend broke up with me. I was just going to try harder.
Then I was abruptly too depressed to finish what I'd started.

I could sit in this chair and stare all day long.

My phone is dead.

If I eat all my caramels I won't have anything to look forward to.

11:25pm.

The group meeting lasted all of twenty minutes and was held two hours late. The Peer Support Specialist wrote down our goals. Mine is to make phone calls for counseling and insurance. And not to kill myself, which I didn't actually say out loud.

There's a lot of things I'm writing that I NEED to say out loud. My sister said to tell them the whole truth or they can't help me.

They can't help me. No one can.
We're approaching the hour of day when I arrived here yesterday. I feel less spaced out, but no more hopeful. My phone won't work. I'm alone now.

One chocolate left.
Reminds me of one of my favorite short stories, The Last Leaf, by O'Henry.
The sick girl lying in the bed stares out the window at the last leaf hanging precariously against the wall.
The angry, failed artist went out in the rain and painted it there, subsequently dying from pnumonia.
But the sick girl hung on and got well, and that leaf was her inspiration and his masterpiece.
Thinking of that story makes me wonder about my life. Sometimes I'm that sick, hopeless girl and sometimes I'm the artist.
I look dead on the outside, but the connection between my head and my hand and my heart pouring onto the page insists that I still breathe in and out.

The only reason I don't slit my wrists is that I keep thinking of the person who might find me like that. I don't mean to trouble anyone. I'll go quietly if I can.
My roommate just shut the light off wwhen she walked out just now. I think she forgot I was here.

I kind of miss the version of myself that people love. I know she's beautiful and smart and talented and compassionate and funny. I know all that, but I'm still ambivalent about her. When she steps out and embraces everyone she meets, she gets hurt pretty badly. She makes me vulnerable to abandonment or attack.

The lady from yesterday told me that none of the things that have happened to me are my fault. I have a hard time believing that. The cars, the jobs, the apartments and basements. The divorce. Losing my children. I don't really believe her, but I would like to.

It's so cold here.

I think about my life, and I think, "I'm 38 yrs old, with no job, no car, no home. How will I ever retire? What have I ever done that mattered?" No connections. No roots to tie me to this earth. No life, no chance, no change, no hope.
Negative thoughts.
They're like poison, The Secret Garden says.
I read that, and I grew up believing what I read.
A friend of mine said to stop claiming to be an optimist because it's bullshit coming from me.
Isn't trying to be an optimist good for anything?
I actually want to just sit and stare, but my mind keeps moving so I write instead.
If I think about suicide long enough and often enough I'll do it. And then I won't have to disappoint anyone anymore, not my parents, siblings, children. No one.
I can't believe my self-esteem is so low. I thought I was starting to feel better about myself than that. I could diet and exercise my way into health like I did before. Lot of work and no time or money. A part time job seems the best I can swing. The chocolates are gone.

I'll jump the hoops today. Do the groups. Talk to the staff whenever they want. I have nothing to think about except what they're having for dinner, and I feel I'm writing in circles. I think of those juvenile detention kids I used to work with, trapped alone in their cells for an hour or more at a time with only a book for company. They weren't even allowed to have a pen and paper in there. 

I wonder if I'll cut my wrists tonight when everybody else is sleeping
I think of him and then I'm happy with the company I'm keeping
Bits and pieces of songs and stories run through my head all the time now, like those in-between spaces on the car radio as you turn the dial.

The afternoon group was about quitting addictions and the cycle of change. There is a stage after Maintaining the change that is called Relapse/Recycle. I wonder if I am at that stage. It seems that some people Maintain happily ever after, but for some, like me, there is always this relapse that they never seem to shake. I push through it, but it always happens again.

It's around one o'clock. Nothing to do but stare at the floor or write, or talk to other residents. I don't want to reach too far out. I don't want or need anything. I wish they would let me sleep, but they want me to stay awake all day to see if I can sleep at night. No use telling them it doesn't work. Gotta show them.

I think of my children again. I should work harder to get better so I can take care of them and be a better Mom. They need me. They need me healthy and successful. They need me happy.
I can't afford to do anything for them anymore. Couldn't afford to buy them school clothes. Couldn't afford to get them another phone so I can talk to them every day. It's been two weeks since I last saw them.
My siblings and my children are all that tie me to this world.
If I were to kill myself, would my babies spend all the rest of their lives feeling abandoned, or not good enough, too?
I'm going to have to accept all the help I can get from this place so I can get well and do my damn job and be an awesome person for my children. Kick ass and take names. And don't quit. I just have to do it, that's all.
I have a counseling appointment on Monday. The Crisis Prevention Team is going to work closely with me.
If they can really help me pull myself together.
I don't know if I'm worth it, but my kids are.
I don't know how I can get to see them tomorrow. They won't let me leave, and with good reason. I've spent most of the morning trying to come up with a way to kill myself. Can I be strong and reassuring for a couple hours tomorrow for my kids?
I've done it before.
Shoot, I could easily fake a full recovery just to get out for a weekend with my kids.

One scary thing a counselor told me my first night here is that ultimately suicide is my decision. That if I really want to die, I'm certainly capable of making that happen.
I'm here because I don't want to die.
But I can't seem to stop thinking about it.

Is there some way that someone could please tell my children in a way that they could believe it, that they have been the best of my life and it isn't their fault that I'm unhappy? There's a chemical imbalance in my brain, my brain is broken, and I've held it all together this long just especially for them. And maybe I just got too tired to do it anymore, but that isn't ever their fault.

I've just realized that I feel no anxiety whatsoever about being in a strange place with all these disenfranchised misfits. It feels as if I've done it all before. It feels no different from the Trauma Recovery group or any one of the homeless shelters I've been in. I am unruffled within. Not only do I not know how to cope with trauma, I have also lost the ability to recognise it as I encounter it. I am so out of touch with my real feelings it is unbelievable. How do I learn to cope with an endless cycle?

In my novel, I can't get past the court scene where I lose my kids. That might be true of my life as well.
I can't get past that, and I can't see my way around that sad, confused little girl that I sometimes realize is me.
If I can find acceptance and unconditional love and peace and develop self-confidence, maybe I can save myself. I just have to accept that relapses happen.

This is a relapse, not a repeat.

It's so cold in here. I'm sitting under my blanket. The sun is out. I glanced out at the patio but didn't step out.

This place isn't so safe.

Now I'm eyeing the noose-like pull on the blinds and the exposed light bulb on my bedside lamp. They seem to be taunting me. Ha ha. You aren't really going to do it.

Breaking the lightbulb would make a noise. Maybe not the shattering sound when a bulb is dropped, but surely a sort of popping sound. I'd have to do it when the nurse wasn't at the front desk and my roommate was down in the TV room.

These doors can lock from the inside.

I hope to god my children find and read every good thing I ever said about them. I hope they can forgive me for all my mistakes.

Maybe this place is bad for me. Nothing to do but write and think. And my thoughts keep cycling back to the wrong things. I feel like if I hang on long enough for them to put everything in place, these people really could help me. Suicide is a flirt. Shows a little ankle and then steps away again. Winks at me from across the room.

I hope someone here is keeping my sister up to date about  what's wrong with me. One of us has to get some insight.

Maybe I can just huddle underneath my blanket and stare for a bit. No one can accuse me of napping if my eyes are open. I swear to god these people are trying to bore me into submission. ...

I went on The Group Walk today. The light and the noise from the cars freaked me out, much the same as my brother-in-law's Mom rearranging flowers behind me around this time last year. Circles and cycles.

I find that I like every single one of the people here. I have a passion for the misfits of this world. They're my kind of people. Characters. Off the beaten path. I identify with them. I love people so much it seems a shame to leave this life just because I'm disappointed in myself.

I am waiting the two hours until Wrap-Up Group and then snack before I go to bed and wait up to see if I'm going to go through with it or not. Maybe it's like anorexia: So much of my life completely out of control, or lost, but here is this one thing still in my hands. Something I can do, if I'm not too weak or afraid.

The cloud outside my window is shaped like a skull.

Only twenty minutes and visiting hours are over.

I think there needs to be a special program for suicidal people. They should hike them up to a mountaintop to see how beautiful it is. Between the exercise and the view, I imagine most anyone would have a change of heart.

These people seriously are trying to bore me into choosing life. I think it may even be working. I hope when I'm dead that my journals go to family who will censor them a little for my children. I want them to know how much I love them and not how I've failed them. They'll find all kinds of truth in there. The story of me and their father and what was right and what went wrong. Those diaries hold every hope, dream, struggle and joy. Every boy I ever dated. Every mistake I ever made. Every movie, book, historical figure or play I ever loved. Things that I hated. Complaints about family. Love for my family. Guilt. Lots of guilt. Regrets. victories. Broken promises. Promises kept.  There are people who have loved me very much. I hope my kids look them up and listen to their stories...

Damn. Maybe they're not having Wrap-Up group tonight. I think I'll go brush my teeth. Dead girls don't have to have bad breath.

They claim it's hard to actually kill yourself, but I notice people often seem to do it by accident. Hell, I might get lucky one last time.

~~ Third Day~~

There isn't much to do here but write, eat meals, sleep, sit outside, sit inside, and stare at the floor or some other
stationary object.

I'm not allowed off grounds without a staff member until I can prove that I'll keep myself safe.

Last night I asked the mental health worker some questions, such as what kind of a degree do these people have around here. They're all psychiatrists and social workers, with degrees varying from bachelor's level to PhD. She's a cute little lady named Audrey, somewhere in her early twenties. Audrey asked if I'd been thinking suicidal thoughts that day, and I said yes.

Audrey asked if I had a plan for killing myself, and I thought about breaking that light bulb and cutting myself with it and told her no.

But I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I had to ask her "What if I were to have a plan but not want to tell you that because then I couldn't go through with it if I wanted to? What would you do then?"

I was staring at the tabletop when I asked it. I haven't been able to look many of these people in the eye since I got here. She seemed to be staring at me. I think I was unnerving her a bit.

She said, "I have to trust that you are being honest with me when I ask you a question. We're here to help. You might try giving us a chance to help you."

I was actually still mad at her for being patronizing when she asked me about my walk earlier. I'd told her that the sunlight and the noise of the cars was freaking me out and I felt exposed on all sides, and she'd asked if, all lights and noises aside, the walk maybe had been a good thing for me. I said sure it had. She wanted to hear that.

I went to bed and thought of seeing my children and grudgingly decided that if I gave my word to keep safe for the night then I would keep it. But that's only one night.

They're supposed to check the rooms every half hour, but they don't.

I'm not trying to be uncooperative. Just the opposite. I eat when they tell me to eat, dutifully pop my pills when they dole them out, and listen when they talk. I answer every question that they ask me, and I don't pretend that I'm feeling better just to get out of here, though I badly want to see my kids this weekend. Besides, part of me doesn't want to see them, because I don't know about them seeing me this way.

I'm not here to die, I'm here to live, but I feel dead. I feel like a ghost. Nobody really sees me or talks to me.

Maybe I'm just not letting me see them enough.

I have no idea how long they will keep me here.

I want to jump through the hoops and move on with my life, but the problem I keep confronting is that I don't know how to live my life. I feel like I've been moving in circles and that it's not ever going to get me anywhere that's better.
Plus I'm NOT really better, and I'm aware that pretending that I'm all right won't get me very far. Maybe that's the big secret to why my life feels so repetitive.

I feel numb.

like nothing

an absence of space, a pretext.

Maybe no one will make me promise to be safe tonight, but I want to see my children again tomorrow.

Why was I born?
Trauma.
Brain shuts down.
Strong person.
But the brain just shuts down.

Day Four

I spend a lot of time staring and not thinking anything at all.

Loucylle is having a bad day. Yesterday she was lucid, sounded well-educated and insightful, and spoke reverently of her Lord and Savior.

Today she's yelling at the staff for trying to control her food intake and her pill consumption and muttering to herself, "Mutherfuckers done tore me outta my momma's wound. Smells like shit..."

Otherwise it's strangely quiet around here on the weekend. My roommate has been gone all day. She was going to kill herself when her boyfriend died and she lost custody of her children, but she must be a little better because they let her out. Curfew's at nine o'clock.

"Here you a black woman and you sittin there talkin to that Caucasian woman and her ancestors done you wrong..." Loucylle again.

A moment ago she asked me if I could help her turn on the dryer. Guess I owed her the help, really, after all my ancestors had done to her ancestors and all.

I'm feeling better today than when I came in here. Seeing and holding my kids, I wondered what on earth I've been thinking and why.

Audrey said last night that a man on a tightrope balancing his daughter has to balance himself, not the girl. Meaning, she said, that I have to take care of myself for my own sake and not just for my children.
Well, what I say is, if I hold my little girl and I'm thinking I need to stay alive another day so I don't miss her visit, that's still one more day.

"I don't need no pills. I got my genetics to take care a me! They sittin there in they booth talkin. Huh! I talkin to myself. And I ain't crazy!"

You keep telling yourself that, Loucylle.

But at ten o'clock they came and took her away.
Oh, she was furious! She told them she was calling her doctor, her brother, her caseworker, and then, when none of those ruffled the policemen or the EMTs, she screamed, "I'll tell you what: OBAMA! That's right, I said it! You can all go straight to HELL!"

But then one clever fellow came up with the idea of asking her, "Don't you WAnt to get out of this awful place?"

She brightened right up at the thought, stuck her tongue out at the nurse, and walked out into the night.

I'm safe tonight. I want to see my children tomorrow.

Please don't be mad at me for any of the terrible stuff I'm writing.
I'm not trying to be a bother to anyone or to have a bad, negative attitude.
I will do everything I can to clear this sludge out of my brain and be a real girl again.

It's midnight and I'm exhausted from being normal from four to six this afternoon.
I'm going to bed.

Day Five
Well, for lack of anything else to do, and no madcap adventures with a cat wearing a hat forthcoming to cheer me up when it's raining out, I might just as well update you.
Yesterday before the kids came all I wanted to do was go back to bed, sleep being the next best thing to death.

It began to creep up on me, that sensation of all this happening to me before: Alone in a strange place with strange people, without my children. I just want it to stop. I picture George Jetson on that out of control conveyer belt yelling, "Jane, stop this craazy thing!"
I wonder what time afternoon Group is. It's all I have to look ahead to.
I want to cry but I can't.
Inane conversation with my Contact Person today. I told her my anxiety scored a 6 on a scale of one to ten, depression's at a 10. Suicidal thoughts around a 6 as well.
"Well, that makes sense!" She said brightly. She asked if I was hallucinating. They all ask that.
Now that I'm out of her office, I realize that I'm doing this all wrong. I need to look these people right in the eyes and convey how I'm feeling in words instead of these numbers they want. I thought I already was, of course, but we really aren't quite connecting. She'd asked if I'd enjoyed the  "game" she found me "playing" on the computer earlier, and laughed when I said "No," but really I should have said it wasn't a game, it was my Gmail Inbox, and I was checking my mail for signs of life outside The Crisis Center. Instead I told her that I'm wondering what's going on in the outside world.
"What do you mean by 'outside world'?" She asked.
She KNOWs what I mean by that.
I explained it anyway. How on an average weekday my sister would be getting up with her small children and brother-in-law would be going to his office, only, today, my sister would be picking up my kids for a visit.
Thinking of my kids coming to see me sent me to my bed to nap away the anxiety and the time.

At lunchtime, Larry shared his chips with me. Larry's a nice guy.
My goals for today were simple: Do my laundry and see my kids.
I missed breakfast, not that it matters.
Today the kids will come again, and my sister will bring their school papers and a sweater and some deodorant.
I think I want to get better, though the odd thought of "I think I'll just swallow this detergent!" does run through my mind. To that thought, I replied: "It will taste bad and maybe upset your stomach. Big deal." But it keeps me unsure.
I try to understand myself but I simply don't right now.
If I live, I don't know what to ask for from life. I feel like anything would be too much.
There's a poor woman who has bipolar disorder who pleads over and over every day to anyone who will listen, "Please, I just want to go home to Vermontville!"
I gather that she has no home to go to, and is not allowed to leave for safety concerns, but she doesn't seem to understand that.
The weekend nurse came in and told me that I didn't come for my morning meds.
Confused, I asked if she'd called me.
She gave a "Can you believe the nerve of this woman?" laugh and said, "In the real world, you're going to have to take responsibility for taking your own meds. We don't call you to come and take them."
Oh.
Well, then.
I did my "Doh! Dummy me!" Act and took the pills, but inwardly it smarted because during the past four days I've been here the nurse has always called me on the Intercom to tell me to come take my pills.
Such is the pettiness of my days now.
I missed the Group Walk doing my laundry, but at least I got clean clothes out of the deal.

One man said that he never told anyone when he swallowed a bottle of pills to kill himself because he didn't believe anyone would help him.
I keep telling people.
I must believe that there's help out there.
The tricky part is not thinking about that light bulb, or the sharp wire in the catch of my purse.
I really have no idea how to rescue myself.
I need to do it, though.
I am getting lots of love and support from my family.
I have been reluctant to tell anyone else except my closest friend.
Maybe they would judge me for having a mental illness, or maybe some employer would find what I wrote about it online and use it as a reason not to hire me. Our country is not exactly supportive of people with mental illnesses. They get labelled as "crazy" and disregarded from there.
I catch myself sometimes thinking ahead a little.
"Ahead" is still kind of vague.
I seem only able to focus on one thing at a time.
I need to pack and move my stuff out of my old apartment.
After that I get overwhelmed.
If I try thinking about work, transportation, rent, my now ex-boyfriend, or even day to day at home with my family, I get derailed again. Anxiety.

Day Six

It's raining again today.
Group Therapy consisted of a relaxation video. Two residents fell asleep watching it.
Larry bolted right out of there.
Must not have suited him.
Or maybe the sight of flowers triggers memories from 'Nam.
Who knows?
I was glad of killing another half hour.

Today my Contact Person was a tall, brown-eyed young man with a beard and a tattoo on his arm that reminded me of my sister's Ancient Myths and Legends book about the Celts - a blonde depiction of Lugh, the Irish Sun God. Yes, indeed, this guy was cool.
He asked about my depression, which I rated down to an 8, and my anxiety and suicidal tendencies, which I think might be down near a 5.
"Are you having any side effects from the change in your meds?"
"No, but This is only Day Two of taking them."
"Are you seeing things, or hallucinating in any way?"
"Nope."
Sometimes I think that disappoints them.
He reminded me that I have two or three phone calls to make tomorrow, a counseling appointment, and a visit with the shrink.
It was WONDERFuL to see the kids again. They colored me lots of pictures and told me about school. I tried to get them to promise to go to sleep early and eat a good breakfast for their MEAP tests.

At the end of the visit hugs were dispensed - my daughter ran back with tears in her eyes and hugged me twice - and they ran out into the parking lot in the rain.
I sat in the silence of my room listening to the rain fall.
I realized that my two goals for the day were complete: laundry and visit with the children.
Nothing left to do but read, write, and wait for dinner.
I try to tell myself that out in the ordinary world I'd love to have time for nothing but reading and writing.
I sit and watch the rain fall outside my window.
I'm running out of paper again."

Day Seven

Good news:

Before the week is over, I will have:

1. Health Insurance Coverage
2. A regular therapist to speak to weekly
3. Group Therapy and Support Groups to attend
4. An appointment with the psychiatrist to determine how my meds are working and discuss how to maintain progress.

All things being complete, my release date should be Saturday morning.


Day 8


Audrey told me tonight that she herself has PTSD, and that she went to a therapist regularly for two years and has been able to actually heal to the point that she hasn't had a relapse for a long time.
Her point being that once I get a regular therapist, if I stick with it steadily, things really could get better instead of feeling as if they're always repeating themselves.
This was very heartening.
She also gave me information on how to cope with anxiety attacks, flashbacks, nightmares, and insomnia. Regarding the insomnia, the ultimate goal is to develop ways of calming myself to sleep better naturally, since all sleep medications are bad news long term, as you develop a tolerance for them.

Also, the guy with the anger management problems just blew up in his Contact Person's face and is now shouting and carrying on down the hall like a raving idiot. Excellent opportunity to start practicing those coping skills, since loud, angry men trigger anxiety attacks. I'm shaking and my heart is racing again. This happened a couple nights ago and I only slept three hours. bad dreams
Back to the old hand-out...

Day Nine

I feel entirely myself again.
I feel no need to remain through Saturday, but I'm willing to speak with the powers that be here and cooperate
All difficult residents have been released.
Spent a peaceful morning painting and reading.
Finally saw the Psychiatrist.
She will continue to see me on a regular basis after I leave.
Her plan is to take away my sleeping pills, as that particular brand really is lethal and also easy to overdose on anyway.
Sobering thought.
Did Group Therapy, which was on Relaxation Techniques.
Went to a Writing Workshop that turned out to be just me and the instructor. She was delightful.
Life is good after all.


I spent my last days at the crisis unit painting a picture with the materials my sister had brought for me. 
I wanted to leave something behind that expressed my gratitude and expressed my hope.
They returned my journals to me without comment.

When my sister came and I got into her car, the world looked brighter than I remembered. I saw things as if for the first time. I found myself reflecting on what life has to offer me if I am courageous enough to accept.