So, in the very back of my mind I had a rather romantic idea of what it would be like to be committed. I kind of pictured a comfortable little room, lots of talking to therapists, nice meds to help me sleep. However, it really wasn’t like that, there’s absolutely nothing romantic about getting yourself committed.
I spent over twenty-four hours waiting in the emergency room, medical, then psych. The psych e.r. is cold and empty, the rooms have electronic locks, no curtains, shatter-proof windows. Since I’m trached with a vent, I got admitted to a medical floor and not the psych floor. I’m really not sure that the latter would have been better. Rather than talking, the first course of action is drugs. I got so fucked up on Remeron I couldn’t think straight for almost two days, my hands and feet swelled up, I didn’t feel real.
It’s all a little fuzzy, really. The entire three-ish days were physically exhausting. I hadn’t felt so bad since my two-month stay back in 2006, only this time I volunteered for it, I signed up for it. I felt ridiculously stupid, like I was killing myself, but accidentally. In doing so, however, I reminded myself just how much I really want to live.
Eventually, I did get to talk to a psychologist, not a drug-pushing psychiatrist, she referred me to some out-patient therapists. Overall, I feel better about my situation, I don’t feel so lost and stuck. After Sara left, my life took a really bad turn, ridiculously so. An entire nice little future, gone in a blink. Apparently, I couldn’t cope. I had to do something to set things right again, and I think that’s what I did.
Still, I’m absolutely exhausted, and as a bonus, my trache got rather nasty inside, so I’m on ten days of IV anti-biotics. My arms look like a junkie’s, track marked and bruised from failed IV attempts.5 comments
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