A Random Middle Post, Tarantino Style

I didn’t even TRY to commit suicide this time. I turned myself in - first to my sister, then to the hospital - all according to my suicide prevention plan - and somehow I still get put into handcuffs. After I had been reassured by the hospital staff that I would not be handcuffed because I was completely docile and willing to get help. After all - all I could do is sit there and weep; out of will, out of energy to continue to fight, just enough left over for the overpowering guilt to apologize to Jen repeatedly.

“Procedure” the deputies tell me. Even though I have presented no danger whatsoever to anyone except myself, and followed my own procedure by letting Jen and the hospital know before I did anything stupid. I ride to the hospital in near-silence, all the while observing how completely unsafe I am. Do you know who looks at the road the least? A cop. Do you know how fast he’s driving while he’s not looking at the road in the deer-infested northwoods? Fifteen mph over the speed limit, and he’s got the cruise control on (by the way - that’s 80 mph). All of that I can clearly watch - as well as swerving over the lines repeatedly - as I’m cuffed and helpless for no reason in the backseat. I just white-knuckle my water bottle and have a silent panic attack, while I instinctively chafe against my restraints.

Don’t worry - he checked my water bottle to confirm that it was, in fact, water before we left the hospital.

I am pretty furious about how I’m ending up in another psych ward; I wanted this to happen on my own terms. Again, I voluntarily turned myself in to Jen, and we decided that it was smart to voluntarily turn me in to the hospital. I sat there for hours on end, while they tried to figure out what to do with me in conjunction with the gentleman (and he was) from the crisis center. Note to self: go straight to the hospital that has the looney bin, it’s got to be better than this. Note again: it’s marginally better to to straight to the hospital, but definitely better than the jerks at Kountry Ketchup Klinik’s ER.) The PA (physician’s assistant) Dawn, made a false statement to the Sherriff’s deputies that she and my sister (!!!) thought that I may be a flight risk. This is after I brought myself in voluntarily for treatment and haven’t moved off my gurney except to use the restroom and immediately return to said gurney.

Also? Jen would *never* say such a thing. The only reason she left is because these people were dragging their feet like they were made of boulders and she had to get home to take care of her children in a few hours. They were keeping the door to my hospital room open completely, and I would have seen/overheard such a conversation. Not to mention - Jen would never say such a thing. And I didn’t know it at the time, but if she did say such a thing, where was her signature denoting truth to such an accusation?

They couldn’t provide it.

I didn’t know I was being “chaptered” until I actually got to Holy Hospital.

I don’t know how it is in other states, but they were holding me for 72 hours. Under Chapter 51.15 I could have had charges pressed against me (essentially) if I wasn’t compliant during those 72 hours of holding. Now I just wanted to get through the 72 hours instead of working on me. I just wanted to prove that I wasn’t out to do harm.

Great - a fake face where I need help. Not that I would ever fake anything, but now I'm more concerned about the chapter holding than what is actually wrong with me.

At that time, they were taking me to a completely unfamiliar hospital - Holy Hospital - when I had packed my belongings for Ketchup Klinik, because I was a patient within their network, and they had a looney bin in the same city I was heading for. This made me nervous...really really nervous. Just about everything makes me nervous, but naturally the unknown just blows it out of the water. I had previously done research into Ketchup Klinik’s behavioral health inpatient system, but the cop took my phone away from me in the middle of my reading up on Holy Hospital’s (my guess - he did not want me to use my camera inside the car - I could clearly see the dashboard).

Regardless of the fact that you’ve already been in a looney bin, you always have that image of shuffling, drooling, straight-jacketed patients (no one has been straitjacketed in the hospitals I’ve been in...and I’ve seen some people FLIP THE FUCK OUT - they use drugs to calm them down...a lot of drugs in syringes). And I won’t lie - there are extreme cases that I cannot handle speaking to. When I find myself inpatient, there always seems to be one or two that I just cannot be around and need to avoid at all costs.

I also seem to find one or two that need my help, and I always stick to them like glue. I know the whole point of me being inpatient is for me to be my own baby and to work on my issues, but I can’t stand the sight of someone crying and no one being there to hug them. We are highly discouraged from touching each other as well as forming bonds with other patients, but I can’t stand the sight of someone rocking themselves like I do, and knowing how they’re feeling at that moment. I know that *I* want a hug when I’m at that point, so I have to dole out the hugs - I just have to.

It was very lucky for me that the doctor saw that I was obviously there voluntarily and did not need to be "chaptered". He started working on the problem at hand, which he believed to be medication related - and I agreed with him. It was kind of a strange situation, actually, because when I told him who my treating doctor was in Toledo, he kind of laughed at me, and near the end of our conversation told me that my treating doctor was his professor during medical school. 

I felt like he was meant to be my doctor.

It’s been pointed out to me in just about every therapy appointment, every inpatient adventure, that I seem to be a caretaker of others. Misplaced motherhood? Maybe. In one of my more recent hospital stays, one of the therapists suggested to me that I should write a blog. Why should I open myself up to the public, so raw and so naked, in front of you all...baring for all to see my complete pain and horrible adventures with my sickening genetics? Because - she said - it’s been proven that peer to peer support is more effective than medicine and therapy. I’ve seen examples of this already (and I’m sure they’ll come up, because they’re certainly pertinent) and I know that I’ve helped at least two other people face-to-face. If I can help *just one* person with my blog, then it will be worth it.

My official diagnosis as of earlier this summer is bipolar disorder with abnormal presentation. They don’t call it “manic depression” anymore because it’s a total misnomer. I don’t go “manic” like some people think…google definition: ”showing deranged excitement or energy” hahahaa - no no no. I might be deranged, but it’s more of a JILLSMASH deranged. I’m so angry and tightly wound and completely irrational that I have no idea which way is up or how to release myself positively (even though I’ve been given some amazingly wonderful tools and am working on myself with a therapist). I talk fast. I’ve been very promiscuous in the past. Driving is not a good idea because I could kill myself and others. I reach a level of fury that I hate myself for - for no apparent reason. I have nothing to be mad at. I can point at things and say that “this” is irritating me, but no rational person would be seething at said irritation.

I go totally hulk. And I hate myself for it. Luckily - for the most part - the only person I’ve physically hurt is myself.

I have other diagnoses since then that kind of make me laugh (now) because they’re all over the board and at this moment I’m just going through classes with my therapist, one week at a time, so I can retrain my brain to (hopefully) be more rational when I’m in JILLSMASH mode. I’m on the fence about the bipolar diagnosis. Some of the drugs they have me on are for bipolar patients, and they work amazingly well. When they’ve messed with my anti-depressant without adjusting the mood-stabilizer drug, it sends me into the looney bin (that’s what happened this time.) If I am indeed bipolar, it’s an odd sort of bipolar...and remember that nearly everything is a spectrum.

At this moment, the drug cocktail that they have me on is fine with me. Am I a zombie? Yes. Does my doctor want that? No. Do I? I could not care less. I try to get through my days with the least amount of pain possible. Living with Jen is a great place to be, because her house is absolutely filled with love. When the boys get home, we talk about school, we make dinner, books are read, homework (HOMEWORK IN KINDERGARTEN IS BULLSHIT I MIGHT ADD) is worked on, and sometimes I have special art projects for them to work on. There are lots of hugs and tons of love. Jen completely understands me and is non judgemental, because of struggles she’s been through in her life. 

Regardless of all of that - however - it's easiest for me to zombie through my existence at the moment. I have my schedule that I follow per therapy. Do I make it work every day? No. I try to accomplish whatever I can every day. Baby steps. You hear that a LOT in therapy - I'm saving you money!

In closing, like my dude Mark Twain said: "If it's your job to eat a frog, it's best to do it first thing in the morning. And If it's your job to eat two frogs, it's best to eat the biggest one first."  


xoxoxoxo