30 October 2009

For Sharon—

Sharon, from the comment you made to my post below, I know you must feel that you mean well by passing along “the perfect scripture” and to remind me that the people at the church are my friends. However, while on the surface everyone is nice—and I acknowledge that they have been there when I have needed them during trying times by praying for me—as soon as I walk out the door, that’s it. Yes, A and I actually had lunch the Thursday before my debacle; she brought me my cell phone before I was transferred to the psych ward, and has texted me a couple of times since (which I have patently refused to respond). D did call once after I missed the second service wondering if I was OK or sick, or something; and no, I did not return her call either.

It’s not that I believe they don’t care. I believe there is an intrinsic obligation from Godly Christians to feel they “ought” to care because it is their duty. There is no friendship base there. There is no level playing field. I have nothing in common with anyone. I am the only single, queer, mental case of the lot. How could anyone possible begin to relate to me—to be able to truly “get it?” A friend is someone who is there no matter what whenever you need them. And I can’t operate with just one friend because, realistically speaking, one person may not be able to be “there” due to his or her own personal obligations at that time. Everyone at the church is married and has (or will be having) children. They are all wrapped up in their own lives and obligations. I am a mere blip on the radar screen. With the exception of A and D, there has never been any interaction outside of church (and those were limited at best and the one time A and I actually made plans, I had to initiate the action—something that I am extremely uncomfortable doing). OK, yes, A was truly there when I needed her as she did bring me my cell phone. But as with all of the couples, my only down time is after 1900 on weekdays and weekends—the time they all spend with their spouses/family. I feel as though I am an intruder taking away from their time together. And I don’t want to be the fifth wheel, either—easily the situation since I am the only single person there.

There are just too many people at the church right now. When I walk through those doors, I feel paralyzed for fear that someone will speak to me. I have felt, crossing that threshold of just wanting to stand there and quietly walk out the door, hoping that no one notices me. I can’t be myself, so I put on my façade and pretend that all is well. What should I say? That I am full of uncontrollable rage; don’t forget that I am queer and missing being a part of that community I so desperately want to belong; oh yeah, and by the way, I tried to commit suicide—and most likely will again (it’s all I think about. But have no fear, I will not make the same mistake I did last time)? I don’t want to have scripture quoted to me; I don’t want to be prayed for. I just want to be left alone. You see, that is the conundrum that bipolar and borderline personality persons face. I ache so much for contact, yet at the same time, I am repulsed by it. I can’t walk into a room full of people without feeling so full of fear and anxiety. I don’t expect you, or any of the others to understand that.

So, that brings everything back full circle. No one at the church can possibly understand what I am going through, much less know who the real “me” is. All interactions have been and would continue to be quite superficial at best. I am tired of the façade I must present every single Sunday. Sure, I let my hair down when I was facing that strike, being laid off, and that Six Sigma training I was terrified of taking—but those issues in and of themselves are also superficial. I won’t share anything about who Alix really is for fear that I will become someone to avoid so that they don’t have to deal with my “issues.” Then when that happens, everything has boiled to the surface and, once again, I will see their subtle detachment slowly begin to occur as I have seen with other people to whom I have attempted to reach out over the years of my life. Very simply put, I am tired of the rollercoaster ride—my life such as it is. I’m done with it all.

Surprised as I am, I appreciate the time you took to make the comment. I am not trying to trivialize your effort, but the simplistic approach of dashing off a scripture and telling me of course that I still have a group of friends only validates my perceptions, hence this post.©2009

29 October 2009

Despair of Loneliness

Today is another off day for me. I actually set a goal last night. Laundry. Well, I’ve done that, along with moving all my summer clothes to my armoire. Winter, what a dreary thought. I hate the fact that we go back to standard time zone on 01 November. Crap, that’s this Sunday. Sunshine is important to me. There are periods of time when I will spend huge gaps of time on my front porch. Before I started working for my current company, I also worked from home. I can’t tell you the advantages of being able to work from home. Think about it: dress code (I am always in a tee w/sweatpants and barefoot), I can smoke (which probably explains why I am up to two packs a day), and talk about multitasking— I can pop in a load of laundry during the day, etc.. Anyway, at my old job, I did not have a company-paid business landline coming into my home. So, I snaked a patch cable under my office window that looks out onto my porch. I’d take my laptop, cordless phone and cell and just sit out there all day. It was wonderful. Whenever I had to unmute my phone during a conference call, the damn birds or a siren passing by would always give me away, but no one ever made a big deal about it. Hell, the birds were a pale intrusion compared to some assholes who worked from home and had constant barking dogs or a damn baby shrieking in the background.

I digress. I don’t even want to talk about work while I am on medical disability leave (for how long has yet to be determined). Getting back to today. It’s absolutely beautiful outside. Do I go anywhere? No. I can’t think of any place to go. I have no friends I can call up with whom I can make plans. I had one friend with whom I thought I could be upfront about my mood swings and I made the huge mistake of admitting to her during my last crisis earlier that afternoon that I was so depressed that I was feeling suicidal. BIG MISTAKE. She started crying and going on and on about how she couldn’t bear to lose me; think about all the people I’d be leaving behind who love me and care about me (I had no idea who she was talking about); how could I possibly do that to everyone. She never got it that she was my only friend). Then she told me that she wasn’t leaving me alone that day. Boy did that piss me off. As I got out of her car I told her that she could sit in my driveway all damn day, but she sure as fuck wasn’t coming into my house. Ultimately she calmed down and I finally got her to leave. (She was the one I thought had called 911 later that night). Then, not too much later she texted me and wanted to make sure that I was still OK, followed by a phone call which I did not answer. I texted her in all caps to leave me the fuck alone and not call back. Needless to say, I ended up with a bunch of texts and missed call entries that I had to delete.

I have quit going to my church (I’ve now missed three services in a row—something I’ve never done). One person had called and left a vm the other week that I just deleted. (What is nice about having an actual answering machine at home vs having your vm as part of your landline package is that you can screen your calls.) But, no one ever calls me. I’m serious. I have no friends. I had to use that one friend as part of my “safety list” upon discharge from the psych hospital to indicate that I had a support system. I actually used her and one person I knew at the church. I had to put in at least two names and phone numbers (no, they didn’t bother to call them to verify it; otherwise, I imagine one or both would have tried to contact me specifically about receiving that type of call). It’s ironic that, after three weeks now, she pinged me on my cell only twice (which I ignored) and hit my facebook account once (and I immediately blocked her). She actually hasn’t tried to call me. I hope she got the message finally. I don’t want someone around who feels they have to "fix" me.

So I am sitting on my couch once again (now listening to U2, the Stones and Jethro Tull) and there is absolutely no one I can call with whom I can talk. No one. I never understood just how much loneliness could hurt. I don’t have to worry about intentionally isolating myself. There is no one from which to isolate. And the most desolate part of all of this is that I have been like this for so long. Even looking at my past blog entries, I can see going back to April 2007 I made this entry.  So here I sit. All alone. Why bother?©2009

28 October 2009

Outpatient Therapy, Day 3 and My Date with the Police


I was very uncomfortable walking into the group room today. While the entire group is split in two, everyone has to come into my room to pick up and fill out their daily check in sheets. Then they go to another room. The room is fairly large; there are 6 conference-sized tables arranged in a large square. There is a seat for everyone, but it still too many people for me. At least half of them leave after 10 minutes or so.

Today’s “sharing” session (which generally lasts for two hours) was the usual boring routine until it got to me. I have decided to be honest about everything: the isolation that is now bordering on the extreme to include not even wanting to sit near someone, the rage/anger, suicide ideation (as long as I can assure them that I am not going to act on it), etc. I told them about my egging the police cars Sunday afternoon as an example of how my rage is getting out of control since I am now acting out my impulses. I admitted the desire I have to want to beat the crap out of any cop, and that I have been looking for ways to provoke an incident. I also told them that the two cops who responded first to my 911 call back on 10 October would be coming over to my house this afternoon to answer some of my still yet unanswered questions. Boy did that get their panties in a wad. They asked me if I thought I could control myself while they were at my house. I told them I was seeking answers, and as far as this meeting was concerned, I needed their help so I could fill in the gaps. I’m smart enough to know not to bite that hand that feeds me. Then I was asked how I would respond if they told me something that made me angry, or if they patronized me in any way. I didn’t have an answer for that one. They’d better not patronize me. That’s about all it would take to send me over the edge. Who the hell do they think they are, anyway, strutting around flashing their badges and guns like they own everything? (but, of course, I didn’t say that!). They didn’t think it was a good idea, and suggested instead that I meet them at the police department. Oh, yeah, like I’m gonna want to go THERE (aside from the fact that there are too many people around). I just told them I would think about it, but most probably I was going to stick to my guns and have them over. Right now as I wait (should be here in about 45 minutes barring getting a call beforehand), I don’t feel that my anger is out of control. My driving force is to get these much-needed answers. I can behave, or at least play the game, to get what I want. We’ll see.

The second part of the outpatient program today was the presentation by the therapist. She usually touches on various stressors, reactions to stressors, and discusses possible coping skills (today was about anxiety vs panic and their associated decriptions/indications of the related attacks). However, as soon as we came in from our break, she announced that the whole group would be together for this. I immediately got up from my seat at the table and found a chair that was against the wall far away from the table. Everyone piled in and thankfully filled all of the seats so it didn’t look too abnormal to take a seat on the wall (however, I moved there before most of the other group had come into the room). I had a hard time during that session. Just too many people. And, God, can some people whine!

(later) Well, the officer just left. He was as nice as could be and sat down at the table I have on the porch. He said the police always respond to “suicide person” calls as SOP. He and the ambulance parked across the street (where the church parking lot is) so as not to alert me, reasoning being that the alleged “suicide person” may try suicide by cop (it’s a shame they know THAT trick). He went on to say, especially after interacting with me today, that I was highly intoxicated and could not walk without assistance. He walked me into my house to secure my wallet, keys and sandals, but said that he did not search the house. He can’t remember if all my house lights were on or not.

But, here is the kicker: my pastor arrived (he was waiting for the police. He also parked across the street) to show them the text message I sent him. That really pisses me off. OK, I get that he felt some professional obligation to call 911 based on the text message I sent. But to meet the police at my house??? That crosses the line in my book. That pisses me off to no end. Why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone? What was he out to prove?

The cop was completely courteous and respectful. He even said that he wouldn’t even have recognized me by my actions given the state I was in then vs how I was when he talked to me today. It said it was quite an amazing difference.

OK, I guess I have been able to fill in my blanks (except why the hell my pastor showed up…but I haven’t talked to him or anyone at the church since that night, nor do I plan to. Needless to say, I won’t be returning to church—that one or any other for that matter). Now I am just waiting on my medical records from my ER debacle and the copy of the .wav file with the original 911 recording. While I may now have my answers to what the fuck happened (no, I take that back. I can’t account for the hours between 2000-0300 or remember ever feeling suicidal), the whole nightmare has been very upsetting to say the least.©2009

27 October 2009

This Should Be Classified as a Hate Crime!


ATLANTA POLICE DEPARTMENT RAID THE ATLANTA EAGLE

“On September 10, 2009, Atlanta Police illegally detained and searched dozens of patrons at gay bar without a Warrant, Reasonable Suspicion, or Probable Cause.” (see here for the full accounting.)

This is a personal account of someone who was there (listen to all of it even though the clip is about ten minutes) It visibly reveals the incredible impact this incident had on this patron:



This has not just affected people locally in Atlanta. Here is an example of a reaction from a global perspective:



I am outraged beyond description that something like this has occurred. This is NOT Stonewall, and it is NOT June, 1969. Folks, this is happening NOW. The fundamentalist Christian Right has decried our efforts to obtain our rights as citizens of the US. They say that we are asking for “special” rights. They say that allowing these rights (legally recognized marriages and all of the economic benefits associated, protection from discrimination in the workplace, the acknowledgement of inclusion as any abuse to be considered a hate crime, the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, etc., etc., etc.) will only erode and undermine the family values of the American institution (the last time I looked, I lived in Amerca!). There are bans in many states forbidding LGBTQ couples from adopting children. You can only imagine the underlying thought process in this discrimination. Yes, most recently, Obama finally signed a hate crimes law. Congress proceeds to discuss ending discrimination in the workplace. But none of the “big ticket” items are being addressed. We are so far from where we should be.

What will it finally take for us to be truly treated as equal citizens? It’s been 40 years since Stonewall. Yes, I have seen some positive changes along the way (more open-mindedness, some states passing the right to marry/civil unions—however with the caveat of DOMA—nothing is sanctioned at the federal level, and a little more public tolerance). However, the religious right is determined to have their way. They browbeat Washington with their powerful lobbying efforts (e.g., Focus on the Family’s James Dobson, et al. have made it their driving focus to rid America of the “gay agenda” and they have exerted their significant influence upon many in Congress). The “gay issue” has become the litmus test for all politicians.

What happened in Atlanta IS a hate crime. Will the Atlanta City Police Department ultimately be held accountable for their horrendous actions, or will this, as with so many other incidents, be quietly swept under the rug? The LGBTQ community is completely exposed as long as there is tacit permission for any organization to be able to act as the APD did. I fear the end result, if all of the gay bashers have their way, will be retreating back to the pre-Stonewall days. I’m proud of who I am; I don’t shrink from my responsibilities to speak out and take a stand when necessary (to include righteously speaking out to the snide comment made behind my back while standing in a cashier line while someone loudly announces their ignorance just because of a t-shirt I may be wearing displaying the fact that I am a dyke).

Folks, we’re not going anywhere. We are not going to be passive and silent. Change must come now.©2009

Yet Another Decision



Today is a day off for me. No appointments with anyone. Yesterday evening I made another decision, diametrically opposed to this one only made here.

I had nothing but time on my hands yesterday after my first encounter with my therapist. I spent much of the time playing catch-up in reading the many blogs that I follow and reading comments made to my posts, along with some personal emails I actually received from truly caring individuals. As the day progressed, I did feel the intensity of my rage lessen somewhat (certainly not from anything purposefully done on my part, I assure you)

I had already made the decision to come back and see the therapist for a second appointment—a commitment that I didn’t think I was capable of making, much less caring about. Early evening it occurred to me that if I am going to make an effort with this therapist, I should at least be responsible enough to go back on my meds (a value judgment?). I went back to my bedroom and lined up all the containers (three of which are for blood pressure since it seems I’m having an issue there as well and swallowed them all (I always feel I have to add the caveat: as prescribed LOL). With my history, making the statement “swallowing them all” takes on a whole other connotation!

Went back to my living room and spent the evening listening to some really fine jazz (John Klemmer, Stanley Clarke, Chick Corea, Miles Davis, Jean-Luc Ponty, Al DiMeola). As the evening rolled onward, I made a concerted effort to also start trying to structure the time I try to go to sleep (an ephemeral experience to say the least). Even though I felt far from tired, I took my bedtime meds, crawled into bed and tried to read a book. I am so frustrated with this last action. I opened up to where I had last read (just the previous day) and I had no memory of what this book is about (I’m only about 12-15% into the beginning). This repeated problem really pisses me off, because, if given the chance to be focused enough to read, at least concentrating on that action temporarily quells all my racing thoughts. *Sigh* I return to the first page and start over.


After a few minutes, I realized that I had made an error with one of my blood pressure medications, a mild diuretic (hydrochlorothiazide HCL, hereafter referred to HCTZ). This one, for obvious reasons, taken once a day, should only be consumed in the morning—certainly not just before going to bed. When I hopped up to hit the head, all of a sudden I did not feel so well. No, I wasn’t dizzy per se, but I felt as if I couldn’t catch my breath and also somewhat disoriented. It occurred to me that perhaps the blood pressure crisis I experienced while incarcerated was indeed situational after all. Was my blood pressure now too low? I walked around for a little bit and found myself having to sit down. Very weird feeling.

So, as potentially stupid as this action could result, I decided to drive up to the nearest CVS and use their BP machine. I had much difficulty driving; it required far more dedicated concentration and focus that what I am used to. When I walked into the store, the lights were too bright and there were too many people milling around. Without asking, I blindly walked to the rear by the pharmacy and found the machine.

Now, mind you, when I was first put on the initial does of medication, my BP had skyrocketed to 228/156. When I was released 11 days later, I immediately saw my primary care physician and my BP was still elevated (165/110). What was eerie in both measurements was the fact that my heart rate was only around 56. My PCP decided to alter the medication I was discharged with from the hospital. He effectively doubled the dose of one (clonidine HCL from 0.1mg to 0.2 mg, but dropped it from, 3x/day to 2x/day), increased to dose of another (lisinopril from 30mg to 40 mg 1x/day) and added the HCTZ at 25mg 1x/day).

I sat in front of the machine and it turned out that my BP had dropped to 137/61, HR 72. The diastolic measurement concerned me as I thought that was a bit too low which might have explained how I was feeling. I drove back home, still trying to catch my breath and thought about calling my PCP in the morning. Went back to bed, read a little and actually experienced the feeling of being sleepy (hooray for me). Perhaps adding the Geodon to my bipolar cocktail might have made the difference. I actually got about five (count ‘em FIVE!!!) hours of uninterrupted sleep. I cannot even remember the last time that happened.

When I woke up, I decided to get my BP measured again before calling my PCP. Weird. It was back up to 150/95 HR 61. (I decided to purchase a BP wrist monitor while at CVS this morning to save on having to drive each time. The first reading, while still at the store, calibrated closely to their BP machine, so I was at least on a level playing field) Knowing it was still slightly elevated, I decided not to call my PCP and took all my meds this morning as prescribed. It has now been one hour. My BP is 112/66 HR 71. Perhaps my BP meds are stronger than they need to be. I’m going to take the rest of the BP meds today and monitor this closely and then possibly call my PCP tomorrow and ask if I should perhaps reduce my dosages.

Speaking of tomorrow, I have my second appt with my shrink. As far as he knows from the phone call he received from my therapist yesterday, I have been off my meds since last my discharge. While I did fill the scripts the shrink gave me on my first visit with him post discharge, I never bothered to take any of them (still in the “I don’t give a damn” mode). I am sure his first response is going to be along the lines of “Why won’t you help me be a better doctor to you?” What can I say? I am now willing to take my meds, continue with this outpatient program for this week and next, and then pick up with my individual therapist the following week.

Is this progress? I don’t know. I still feel resistant. I’m still in my “don’t give a damn” mode. I still face abject loneliness, utter sense of no worth, absolute pain over all the consequences arising from my actions throughout my life, and above all, I have no reason why I should be forced to continue this existence from which I want to be finally relieved. Nevertheless, in reality, what do I have to lose except my life, upon which I still place no value?©2009

26 October 2009

DBT Therapist, Appt #1

Well, I am finally caught up with keying in everything I had written in my journal since my “visit” to the ER. No more date stamping my titles! You know, my handwriting can really suck at times!

I agreed to this appointment as a condition of my release (in addition to the outpatient treatment program I am in, they wanted me to start seeing an individual therapist). Just so it would appear that I was being a “good little girl” I showed up.

While I was in the waiting room, filling out yet more “new patient” forms (hell, they already have a copy of my records from the hospital, why can’t they just read that?), I could feel my anger building. I didn’t want to be here. I had no expectations. And I sure as hell don’t trust the system not to lock me back up if I say how I really feel.

(For the first time since I started this blog, I am not so sure I feel safe even writing what I really do feel here. No one who knows me personally has the link to or the name of my blog, not that I can remember, anyway. At what point do I end up surrendering my 1st Amendment rights?)

I was actually somewhat surprised by this first visit. I wasn’t even sure we would “click.” I tried to get through to her that I did not care whether things “improved.” Of course she asked me if I was suicidal and I just laughed and asked her if she really expected me to answer that after everything that had happened (she started scribbling on her clipboard). She asked a few questions about my history and previous suicide attempts (more scribbling), but all-in-all, she got it that I was incredibly angry. She said my continued participation with her was strictly voluntary at this point.

Sure, I told her that I thought that my life sucks (did not expand on why at this point, but more scribbling anyway), that I had no clue as to how I thought she could help me, and that I thought DBT was for the birds (more scribbling). Then I simply asked her, “How can you even deal with me if I’m in a space where I don’t even WANT to use the tools—that I just don’t give a damn?” And she said that this would be a good place to start. At least she acknowledged where I was rather than determining that I was “unwilling “or “uncooperative.” She said that a return visit was clearly up to me. She didn’t try to preach about tools/coping skills or what I should be doing. She said that obviously I had to decide if I wanted to try to figure out why I was feeling the way I did well before I could do anything about it. It was the first reasonable thing I had heard anyone say to me to date.

I could tell that the time was almost up. She asked me if I felt suicidal, would I be willing to call the hospital, and I emphatically told her absolutely not (more scribbling). Then she handed me my sheet with which to check out, gave me her card, and told me if I wanted to come back to just call and make an appointment.

As I stood in line to sign out, I looked at what she checked off under “diagnosis.” She indicated bipolar (good catch) and anxiety disorder (yet a new label for me, oh goodie). However, conspicuously absent (despite the records from the hospital and the information I filled out on her “new patient” form) was borderline personality disorder. She was still in the hallway, so I called her back up and asked her about that. She said that she didn’t think it was appropriate. Well, I got tagged with that label back in 2005, and with everything I tried to learn about BPD, it seemed to be right up my alley. I told her that I thought it was amazing how no one wants to deal with that issue with me, not even my own psychiatrist and now her. She said that I was operating under an assumption that she didn’t think was accurate, but reached over and checked it off on my sheet and walked back down the hall. What’s up with that? Is BPD the dreaded mental illness that no one wants to discuss? All anyone ever wants to deal with is my bipolar.

When I went to pay (yay—only have a 10% co-pay and today’s, the most expensive appointment since it was an initial workup, was only $12), for some reason I did decide to make a return appointment. Don’t know why, or what I expect, but I thought I’d give it a shot. She has been the only person so far that seemed to be interested in the reasons why.

Meanwhile, she’s going to contact the outpatient therapy program @ the hospital to indicate that I did complete the follow-up appt (I went to see her today instead of the outpatient program), as well as contact my psychiatrist (he asked me to have her contact him for ongoing continuity of care). Since I admitted to her that I hadn’t bothered taking any of my meds since discharge, I guess that cat is out of the bag. I see my shrink Wednesday. I wonder what that visit will be like?

Why am I so resistant to taking my meds—even the blood pressure meds? Everything keeps coming back around to “I don’t care.”©2009

Escalating Anger and Rage, Sunday 25 October

It’s Sunday evening. This weekend has pretty much been a wash. Accomplished absolutely nothing. I’m trying to figure out how many days it has been since I last slept. I feel like I’m on auto-pilot.

I did manage a quick grocery trip finally since being home. That was a strange experience. I found myself just wandering down each aisle trying to figure out what I needed. I’ve never walk in without my list. I didn’t even know what I needed. So I got the basics and beat feet outta there. Too many people.

But I am starting to see a pattern emerge. My anger and rage is escalating for no apparent reason (yeah, I know for you DBT fans out there, there has to be a trigger, but damn if I know what it is). On the way home from the grocery store, I stopped by this little sushi restaurant right around the corner from my house to order something to go. As I pulled into the small parking lot, I noticed five (yeah, count ‘em—FIVE) patrol cars all sitting there unattended. The only other places in this small shopping centre is a bank (closed since it’s Sunday), a Starbucks, a deli and an ice scream shoppe. I had to park next to one of them. I got out of my car, looked around, and couldn’t see a cop in sight. Then I walked into the restaurant (nope they weren’t here). For some reason, as I was waiting for my order, I became increasingly pissed off by the fact that there were at least five cops somewhere sitting on their butts doing nothing. So much for my tax dollars at work.

By the time I left the restaurant I was so riled up over this (don’t ask me why!!!), that I opened up my trunk and got out the carton of eggs. I grabbed four of them and slammed two of the patrol cars. God that felt good. Never mind the fact that anyone in any of these establishments could see what I had done through those large plate glass windows all facing back at me. Never mind the fact that those FIVE lazy cops were somewhere on the other side of those windows. I don’t even remember what I was thinking. Really stupid, Alix. That’s all I need on top of everything else. But nothing happened; no one came flying out the doors. I turned around, closed my trunk, hopped in my car and drove out of the parking lot (yeah, all the while checking my rear view mirror just waiting to see the blue flashing lights on my tail). As I said, this place is literally around the corner from my house. All I had to do was hang a right out of the lot, drive past six driveways and I was home. When I pulled in, I waited for a minute, so sure that the cops were right behind me—still nothing.

I just snapped. Where did all this anger come from? I have developed a rather unhealthy obsession of wanting to beat the shit out of a cop only to know that it would land my sorry ass in jail. There is just something so enticing about wanting to inflict the greatest amount of physical damage to a cop simply because of the fucking authority they represent. I don’t get where this is coming from. It’s like I am stuck in this stupid 60s time warp.©2009

Outpatient Therapy, Day 2 Friday, 23 October, 0900

At group, I was clearly still quite angry and was blatant about purposely not choosing to use any tools, and was very vocal about not giving a damn. Of course, the therapist tried to handle me (I hate being handled) and finally she let it go and went on to the next person. When I got home I was still pretty pissed off and feeling restless. Life really does suck. I can’t make up my mind. I sit in this huge house with a beautiful screened-in porch and all I end up feeling is so overwhelmingly depressed because I am so alone. Then I go off on the rage tangent because I can’t sand to be around anyone and all I want is to be left alone. What a fucking oxymoron am I?

I was reading Patrick’s blog today, catching up on what he’d posted while I was gone. (I still have a few other blogs I am behind in reading). So much of what he wrote resonated so strongly. All I want to do is just disappear and be where no one can find me—ever. Leave everything I own except the clothes on my back, walk out my front door, and drop off the grid with no notice to anyone.

No one will miss me—well, maybe except for my manager after the first day or so. I am currently on short-term medical disability leave totally screwing up my team’s workload. I generally get about 200-300 emails a day. By the time I eventually get back to work (perhaps by 09 November), I am sure my mail server will have shut down my email account just due to overload (I’m sure my clients will be thrilled to start getting “return-to-sender” notifications on top of the already existing “out-of-office” reply my manager had set up upon my admission to the hospital). I can’t even begin to imagine how many unread emails I will have waiting for me by the time I get back. If I get back.

I just plain don’t want to do “it” any more. I’m tired; I’m spent. There is nothing left in me. All I want is to walk out my front door and disappear into the wind leaving no fingerprints behind. It’s almost over now. Even though I had all my scripts filled (from the hospital, my regular doctor and my shrink), I haven’t taken any meds since my discharge. I have no clue as to what my blood pressure could possibly be (ask me if I care). Why can’t I just have a heart attack and die? Knowing my luck, I’d have a massive stroke instead, be left incapacitated and totally useless with no more control. God would find that amusing.

No, I still have the option to take control. I’ve been out of contact with everyone since the night I was taken to the ER. My CallerID was empty when I got home and only one personal email was waiting for me. Ever since I came home, I have only received one phone call and that was from my son. I am so proud of him. He’s 26 and has his head on straight. He has a great job and talks about going back to the university. Do you want to know what we talked about tonight? He was telling me how tickled pink he was now that he finally decided to get contacts (he thanked me profusely for my contribution to the gene pool) and went on about how long it had taken him to get the damn things in his eyes for about the first week or so. He sounded like a kid with a new toy. He sounded happy and that made me smile.

Do I feel guilty about what I will put him through? Sometimes I do because he will be the one to have to fly back east to pick up the pieces. But my job is done. I raised a great son and it’s probably the one thing I’ve done without fucking up to badly. He’s living his own life—he’ll be fine after a while. At least I can say, with past performances, he won’t be surprised. This last episode, however, he never knew of. He’s not listed on my emergency contact list (in fact no one is). But, to head anything off at the pass, the day I was admitted to the psych hospital I texted him that I was headed out of town on business for about three weeks, and oh, by the way, let mom know as my cell battery was getting ready to go. Kept the hounds at bay.

And while I was at the hospital, I missed two services in a row at church–something I hadn’t done in a long time. I’m not planning on returning. There is nothing there for me any more. The ironic thing is that the church is right across the street from my house (in this part of the country, churches are like gas stations—there is one on every corner). And all this time, my car has been parked right in front of my house. Oh yeah, that’s right, there was one member who left me a voicemail the other day wanting to know what was up since I had missed two in a row. Evidently, my pastor didn’t tell anyone what I had done. I just deleted it as soon as the connection broke. No one else at the church has bothered to call. I guess my pastor felt a professional obligation to call in the 911, but that was the extent of it.

It’s weird. I’ve only been home for three days and it seems like it’s been ages since I was in the hospital. It’s all just a distant, hazy memory. I just thought of something amusing. I wonder if there is someone at the hospital that is in charge of reading the obituaries every day just to figure out what their success rate is. But, it doesn’t matter. There is no one here to write mine and send it in.©2009

Post-hospital Visit with Shrink #1, 22 October, 0700

I’m glad he makes these early morning appointments. I get the first one for the day and I don’t have to wait. And, there is no one else in the waiting room—perfect.

It was actually good to see him again. It had been about a year (I quit making my three-month med check appts last year even though I was still taking my meds then). I have always enjoyed a good rapport with him. Compared to the comments I heard from the other patients whose psychiatrists only spend about 10 minutes with them doing their med checks, mine has always actually talked with me and asked me a lot of detailed questions even when everything was going well.

As soon as he came into the waiting room to get me, he was clearly glad to see me and asked when I had been discharged. I immediately spilled my guts from telling him how I initially got laid off back in April which sparked the financial reason why I went off my meds in the first place right through everything that had been happening that led up to the eventual involuntary commitment. He decided to add Geodon (80mg daily for now) to aid my severe depressed state and help with the insomnia.

I also talked about my memory loss. He said that it was highly probably that I was in a dissociative state, but without knowing the results from the tox screen and blood alcohol level, that could very well have contributed to my memory loss. He also wanted to get some more blood work done and said he would wait to get a copy of the labs tests from the ER and the hospital before coming up with the list of tests so as to not repeat anything unnecessarily. He also knew my regular doc was going to be doing a fasting blood panel on me in two weeks, so once he knew what additional tests he wanted run he would call over there and just have them add those tests so I would only have to be stuck once. At the very minimum, he wants to check my thyroid, my FSH (follicle stimulating hormone—an indicator of potential menopause onset), B12, Iron and Potassium. When he mentioned FSH, I thought, yeah, I’m 52. It’s very likely that menopause will be hitting me at some point. Great, I already deal with bipolar mood swings. Let’s just add hormonal mood swings to the mix. I can hardly wait.©2009

25 October 2009

My Nancy Drew Act: The Quest To Find Out What The Hell Happened, Wednesday, 21 October, 1230


(If you haven't already read this saga from the beginning of this nightmare, go here first)

Immediately after the outpatient session was over I raced over to the trauma center I was taken to and put in a request to receive my complete medical record of my ER visit. I detailed that I wanted all the doctors’ notes, the nurses’ notes, all lab results, and any legal paperwork filed against me—or at least evidence that they were requested and ordered by the doctor. I was told it would take approximately 15 days. Then I thought to stop by the business office and get a copy of my bill. At least I could determine from that what tests were ordered and what medications were given and anything else that was billable. That they gave me immediately. It was a start.

What a fucking rip-off. The entire bill was $3910. Here is how it broke down: 5 0.1mg clonidine tabs @ $3 each, 40meq of potassium chloride @ $3/10meq, 1 800mg ibuprofen @ $3, venipuncture @ $25, blood alcohol level @ $196, 2 basic metabolic blood tests @ $200 each, 11 drug screens @ $88 each, CBC @ $105, urine culture @ $171, urinalysis @$93, ER Fee-Level V @ $1,524 (I was charged twice for that one), EKG @ $250, and finally the ER physician’s fee of $234. If I were that doctor, I would be humiliated to know that the damn EKG cost more than I did.

I can’t wait to get my hands on the medical records. I am going to match each billable item to an order in the chart. If I don’t see 11 orders for the separate tox screens, I’m sure as hell not going to pay for all of them

Aside from the ridiculous costs of each item and why the hell they had to run 11 tox screens, everything billed seemed to be a reasonable action taken by the ER considering my supposed presenting symptoms. But, just what were those presenting symptoms? I still can’t remember shit.

Then I went over to the E911 administrative offices. I told them I wanted a copy of the paramedics’ record on me that would reveal the time the 911 call came in, how they found me, what condition I was in, etc. I also told them that I wanted a copy of the 911 recording (they could send me the .wav file via email). While I got a hard copy of the record right away, I was told it would take about a week to get the recording.

As I sat there and read it, I was totally blown away. As best as I assumed before reading this, someone called 911 reporting a suicide attempt. Yet, at the top of the record, it states that they were dispatched at 0259 on 10 October with no lights and sirens. Hmmm…guess they must not take suicide attempts very seriously! They arrived at my house at 0313. But get this—they departed my location to transport me to the ER at 0330 (arrival to the ER @ 0338—again with no lights and sirens). They spent only 17 minutes at my home (btw, that bill was $250).

Then I flip to the second page. This only gets more bizarre. According to the report, “patient found sitting on porch with city police talking with her.” Talking??? So, I was up and talking. Explains HOW they gained access to my house. But, why were the police there? Oh yeah, that’s right, in my state it’s against the law to commit suicide.

I kept reading…”Chief Complaint: Category-Psychiatric Problems,” (geniuses, aren’t they?), “History of Present Illness: patient states that she has been having suicidal thoughts recently. Patient states she sent a message to her pastor detailing that she was going to overdose on medication with alcohol. Patient states she has been off her psychiatric meds for about three months. Patient agreed to go to the ER after admitting to sending her pastor the message about intentions of overdosing. Patient states she has not made an attempt to overdose or any other type of suicide yet.”

Third page “Neurological Exam—Level of Consciousness: alert, Orientation: oriented to people place and time, Loss of Consciousness: No, Chemically Paralyzed: No, Motor Comments: moves all extremities equally well, Sensory Comments: equal and normal sensory functions, Pupils: normal and reactive.” The GCS, airway, respiratory and cardiovascular entries all reported “within normal limits.” “Injury Details—Drugs/Alcohol? Alcohol, Drugs/Alcohol Indicators: patient admits to alcohol use, smell of alcohol on breath” Here is my favorite entry… “Impression/Diagnosis: mental/psych” (God love their training!).

Fourth page “Patient Authorization Signature Form” There was my signature, plain as day and clear as a bell. This was followed by a similar page for the receiving nurse’s signature at the ER.

Reading all of this only raised more questions. If I was so fucking alert and oriented, why the hell can I not remember a damn thing? Why would I send a message to my pastor of all people (sure enough, I checked my cell and there was an outbound text message basically saying what was in the report, so I now know WHO called 911)

What I do remember was being depressed at being so alone and pissed off that I couldn’t go to sleep, and making that huge Kamikaze. I don’t remember being suicidal (well, enough to actually do something about it). Besides, I already know how I plan to commit suicide—with an IV overdose of potassium chloride or insulin, whichever I can get my hands on (which I can quite easily). As I’ve said in previous posts, I’m certainly not going to take a chance by swallowing a boatload of pills and chasing it down with alcohol only to risk vomiting up all my resources. Plus, as evidenced by this occurrence, there is no telling what I might do in that period of time as my mental state starts altering after drinking a lot of alcohol (God forbid I make the mistake of sending another text message). With an overdose of the pills that I do have, there is the risk of resuscitation. With IV potassium chloride or insulin, especially the former, hell, I’ll be doing good to be around long enough to pull out the damn needle. No chance of resuscitation. It’s quick and it’s permanent.

Nevertheless, there are still more questions. Why were all the lights on in my house? Did the cops search my house? There didn’t seem to be any evidence of that. The only things out of place were the coffee table and the two speakers. Why were they moved if I was found sitting on my porch talking to the cops? Well, at least I know HOW the paramedics got in and WHO called 911. Huh, I wonder if the cops’ lights were flashing the whole time they were in my driveway? I’m sure the neighbors loved that. Well, at that hour, that’s probably a moot point. Besides, I don’t even know who they are, so I could give a flying fuck what they think.

Now I want to get in touch with the police department and talk to these cops who were on my porch. Maybe they can fill in some more of the blanks. And the nightmare continues…©2009

Outpatient Therapy, Day 1, Wednesday, 21 October, 0815



Today was my first day attending the outpatient program that was a condition of my release. I had to come in early today to fill out yet another round of paperwork. Afterwards, I walked into this room filled with strangers, one of whom had been discharged the second day I was in the hospital. She tried to make “nice” with me, but I essentially just blew her off. There were two piles of papers on the table one of which was a daily check-in sheet I had to fill out (only to find out soon enough that I was to “share” that information with the group, then turn it in…groan). Geez, it was like being back in the hospital all over again. Oh yeah, there were even these oh so cute neon yellow name tags that we’re all supposed to wear each time. I toyed with the idea of writing “Jane Doe” on mine.

The program is Mon-Wed-Fri from 0900-1200. We spent the first two hours going over that daily check-in sheet, a much needed 10-minute cigarette break, followed by a presentation by the therapist on some type of coping skill. The whole program is DBT-based. Oh the joy. Consider this the 12-step program for the criminally insane.

Going over the check-in sheet was incredibly boring. Essentially everyone gets to share how they’ve been feeling, discussing current stressors in their lives, and of course, the inevitable obligatory follow-up of “what coping skills have you been trying to use to deal with these stressors?” You know, this time around, I thought, well, there is no court order hanging around my neck anymore (sort of…I certainly cannot become obviously suicidal for they will only stick me back inside the Big House). I’m obligated to attend for two weeks. Why bother with the façade this time around. Face it these are all strangers. I could care less how they are “feeling” or the way they are “coping.” So I decided to take the gloves off and tell them exactly how I was feeling (well, to an extent).

When it got to my turn, there really wasn’t too much to say that pertained to me since it was my first day after having been released only yesterday. I told them how perplexing it was to come home and find the house the way I did. I actually did tell them how I felt this huge depression fall on me especially because I was coming home to an empty house.

Well, everyone had all sorts of “feel good” comments to make that I painfully endured (and took with a grain of salt). I also told them how I don’t like being around people and that I usually blow everyone off. I was told that this is normal for BPD and that I would learn successful coping skills to aid in my recovery (remember my comment above about the 12-step program analogy). In my mind, I thought that they just didn’t get it—I don’t want to recover and learn to socialize. I just plain don’t want to be around anyone at any time. Go figure.

When it was time to take the break, I was the first to fly out the door. God did I need a cigarette. There is this covered patio outside with picnic tables and a coke machine. I ambled over that way, but soon enough the whole group was on my heels. Unfortunately, too many people wanted to be nice and welcome me to the group. I decided to downplay my default “fuck you” attitude. I just stood there, smoked and said nothing (that is one thing I am good at)

The last hour was useless. Again with all these stupid tools. Talking about using your “wise mind” (vs. your emotional or logical—the wise mind is where the two intersect), and other DBT dribble like “mindfulness,” “radical acceptance,” “willingness vs. willfulness,” etc. I got nothing out of it, but what could I expect. To be fair and objective, I didn’t put anything into it. I guess I can stomach this for two weeks.©2009

Home At Last, 20 October, 1230

(…continued from previous post)
After walking though my house, all I wanted to do was sit down on my couch and smoke a cigarette. I straightened up the living room, putting the coffee table and speakers back in place. As I sat there and smoked, this overwhelming, helpless depression just settled in around me. Here I was, 11 days later, still on my couch as if nothing had ever happened. But something did. I just couldn’t piece it together. I just started crying uncontrollably (now, let me tell you a little something about me. I’m really not into the crying thing being this tough old butch dyke, but somewhere within me these last few days the waterworks just spouted out…I hated that).

Around 1730 hrs I thought about making some dinner, but I remembered that I had some prescriptions I had to fill. Since they were only 30-day scripts they wouldn’t be as expensive as the 90-day scripts. I figured that maybe it was time after all to get back on my meds. Certainly, after all of the multiple hospital expenses incurred to date, I had more than met my $1150 deductible finally, so the prescription insurance cap would apply. Besides, at the very minimum I knew I had to get the two blood pressure meds filled.

Finally, around 1945 hrs I simply felt drained. So I took all my meds (as prescribed, just so there is no misunderstanding as to the meaning of “all my meds”) and went to bed wondering if I’d get any sleep. It was so nice to be back in my own bed. Tomorrow I begin the first day of the outpatient program. Different staff, different patients (I hope). I will continue this saga as I still have a big mystery to solve and I want to fill in those missing hours. How I will go about that I have no idea just yet. Stay tuned for this story is far from over…©2009

Involuntary Commitment—Day 11, 20 October

(…continued from previous post)
Last night I actually got a little bit of sleep. My morning vitals had my blood pressure elevated again; the two meds, while reducing the BP as a whole, have not quite stabilized it yet.

I decided over the weekend, after I spoke with my shrink on Friday when he told me that today was a reasonable discharge date, that I didn’t want any of the patients to know I would be going home before I actually leave.

I know that nothing will be “final” until the shrink signs the papers for my release this morning and then faxes it to the court to await their decision. Apparently, I do not have to personally go before the judge. Being ever so hopeful, once shift change occurred @ 0700, I pulled aside the one staff person with whom I had a good relationship and told him that I did not want the rest of the patients to know of my discharge before I actually leave. I also asked if it would be possible to arrange my exit while everyone else was in a group therapy session so I could avoid the “goodbye scene.” He just smiled at me and said, “I love a good plan.” I would be leaving with just the clothes I came in with (no packed suitcase or anything), so strolling down the back hallway would mean nothing to anyone.

Then my shrink came onto the unit just while all of the patients were getting ready to go to breakfast, so they all saw me go into his office. I sat down with confidence, had a relaxed smile on my face (with my heart in my stomach) as he opened up my chart. We went through the usual “well, how were you yesterday?” chitchat as he reviewed all of the nurses’ and therapists’ notes. I also mentioned that I was grateful that I was finally able to get some sleep. Then dead silence. I wanted to jump up on the desk and yell, “Well, am I going home today or not?” as I just sat there watching him read my chart.

Finally, I took a deep breath and just spit it out, “So, Doc, is it a go for today?” and he looked at me and said it was and smiled. He took out all of the legal docs and asked me all of the requisite questions (e.g., do I currently feel suicidal? Do I feel homicidal? Do I attest to the fact that I do not have in my possession a gun? What is the name and phone number that can be called to confirm the latter? and so on). I gave all the proper answers to assure my release and watched him sign the papers.

Then he wrote up prescriptions for all my meds to carry me for the first month until I met with my own psychiatrist that had already been scheduled by the discharge therapist for the 27th. He increased my Lamictal dosage again, stood up, and shook my hand. I quickly got rid of my smile as I turned my back to walk out of the office. A couple of patients immediately asked me if I was going home today (the standard fare whenever anyone came out of their shrink’s office each morning). I simply replied that he changed my medication again which basically means I’d be there for another 24-48 hours. Well, I didn’t actually lie—sort of—just ducked the question.

Meanwhile, the whole staff now knew I wanted to keep this news under wraps. So, I had to go through all of the motions of the daily schedule with everyone until the court rendered its decision (whenever the hell that would be). Talk about being distracted during morning group. Then, halfway through group, I was called out (not an unusual occurrence as we were all on different med schedules) and I was immediately told that the court had faxed back my release. I just grinned like a Cheshire cat. My nurse asked me if I was good to go as they surreptitiously handed me back my wallet, keys and cell (it seemed, damn it, that one patient—of course the one with the big mouth— got pissed off during group and walked out and was now hanging around the nurse’s station). I told my nurse that all I had left to do was call a cab.

Then he told me that they could not let me leave the unit until the cab actually arrived, nor was I allowed to wait in the front foyer (on the other side of the locked doors) by myself. I nervously looked at the clock knowing that group would be over before the cab would arrive. Then he said, “Relax, Alix, I promised you that I had a good plan. I promise that you’ll be able to walk through everyone and they won’t even have a clue.” I wasn’t so sure.

Then the patient with the big mouth came up to me and demanded to know if I was going home, but I just blew her off and tried to casually walk over to the lounge area and wait. Thankfully, she didn’t pursue the matter. Meanwhile, my nurse kept calling up to the front desk to see if my cab had arrived. He was looking at the clock. I was looking at the clock. We both looked at each other. The doors to the two group sessions flew open and out poured all 17 patients. Then I got up and walked over to the nurse’s station with this panicked look on my face. He said to just hold tight for a minute. He quietly talked to the other nurses, then came back to me and told me to casually walk down the back hallway as if I was going to the laundry room (certainly not suspicious; we always had some free time between groups to take care of various things). He told me when I got to the end of the hallway, take the left and wait by the back door. He said he would follow me in about 30 seconds so it wouldn’t appear as if I was being escorted out.

I held my breath and nonchalantly walked through everyone as they were milling about getting coffee, talking on the phones and generally chit-chatting among themselves, praying that no one would notice me or stop me. When I got past everyone, headed down that back hallway and got to the end, I quickly dashed to the left and waited. My heart was beating so hard. Freedom—so close.

Sure enough, he casually came around the corner, quickly inserted his key and we walked through together. Turns out that my cab still hadn’t arrived, but they decided to let him accompany me and wait with me in the foyer. As we got to the front doors, my cab arrived. He turned and looked me and said, “I told you I loved a good plan.” The front door…my ride home…everything was perfect. I managed to play my role beautifully for 11 consecutive days convincing everyone that I was not suicidal and that my bipolar and borderline disorders were on their way to getting back under control again.

The ride home was an odd experience. I just stared out the window watching all of the traffic on the interstate. Everyone in the world was just going about his or her normal routines. My life had been on hold for the last 11 days.

It was so surreal when the cab pulled up to my house. As I was walking up my front walk to the porch door, I started to look around for any evidence that the paramedics had been there. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I still have no fucking memory of those first hours. I opened up the porch door and it had not been forcibly opened. Looked around my porch—nothing. Then I walked up to my front door. It appeared to be closed and locked properly, so that door wasn’t busted in. How the hell did the paramedics get into my house?

As soon as I walked though my front door, I could tell that there had been some commotion. My living room coffee table had been pushed all the way to one side and two of my surround sound speakers had been pushed out of position. This was eerie. Then I noticed that ALL my lights were on throughout the house. What the hell had happened that night? I can’t begin to tell you how disconcerting this whole “coming home” experience became.

All of the windows were closed and locked. The back door was intact and locked. It was odd knowing that strangers had walked through my entire house. Why? The last thing I remember was sitting on my couch around 2000 hrs Friday evening, 9 October, polishing off that killer Kamikaze (no pun intended). I have no memory of taking any pills or even thinking about suicide. What were they looking for? Nothing seemed to be out of place in any of the other rooms. (To be continued…)©2009

Involuntary Commitment—Day 10, 19 October

(…continued from previous post)
Saw my shrink this morning (btw, I haven’t even mentioned that he did put me back on my Lamictal starting with 25mg daily to slowly ramp up to my normal dosage of 400mg daily, along with 2mg of Ativan QID and 20mg of Ambien @ hs—ironic, huh? Two of the same drugs that popped on my tox screen). I’m guessing that I’ve pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes sufficiently. He agreed that I could be released from this Godforsaken place tomorrow, the seventh “legal” day (what crap that weekends “don’t count”). The one catch is that I’d have to enter their three-day-a-week 0900-1200 outpatient program for two weeks. So, my head will continue to get shrunk for a little while longer—two more weeks of mastering my perfected façade. Then I can get back to my master plan.

I must say that my one savings grace has been my Army vet compadre. Over the last couple of days we actually started talking about all the bullshit we’ve been through that ultimately landed us both here. I could so identify with everything he said and vice-versa—we’ve sorta become comrade-in-arms. What’s nice about developing a connection in a place like this—full of strangers that you know you will never see again—is that you might just find that one person to whom you can remove your mask.

I am at a crossroads right this minute. I know I am only here because it was court ordered. I know the actions I chose (not that I still remember a damn thing) prior to the paramedics rushing me to the ER were stupid—stupidly resulting from the alcohol. Yet, even at this very moment, even now knowing that I am being discharged tomorrow, I feel more suicidal than I have in a long time. All that has been accomplished during my stay here has been the opportunity to reflect and dwell on just how pathetic and miserable my life is. The pain—the loneliness—is suffocating. I just want so much to just disappear down my lonely dark hole forever. (and to you DBT fans out there—no, I don’t want to use mindfulness, distraction, self-talk, or any of the other bullshit tools).

But I can’t show this. My mask must be firmly affixed for the next 36 hours. I have interviews with my primary therapist, my shrink, the discharge therapist and finally I go before the judge. Can I keep up this façade successfully enough to get through these interviews and truly convince them that I am sane enough to be discharged? I just hid in the bathroom while everyone else went to group (I had permission to skip to start preparing for my potential discharge. Potential because no papers have been signed yet). While in the bathroom, I promptly fell to pieces, crying uncontrollably. I couldn’t even tell you where it came from or what triggered it. I can’t let anyone else see me like this—not now, when I am so close to getting out of here.

You know, if they found this journal, I’d really be screwed. They issued me a pocket folder upon arrival where I was store handouts and other papers, and I’ve hidden it here, and this folder is always on my person at all times.

(later) Met with my discharge therapist. She’s all on board with my release. That’s one hurdle cleared. Now for the others whenever they tell me when they are ready to see me.

I know that any of you reading this probably think I’ve wasted a perfectly good opportunity to get my head on straight. But you just have to understand that I don’t want the help—not any more. I don’t have anything left in me. No emotions. There is nothing left to care about, and certainly no one that really cares about me. I can’t begin to explain the abject pain of my loneliness. All I have left is a darkness that pursues me and envelopes me.

I have made my decision and it is final. I have the resolve now; nothing has been clearer to me. As to when? I have to wrap up a lot of loose ends and put my affairs in order (what a classic phrase). This will take time because it needs to be executed perfectly. All Is dotted, all Ts crossed. Plus, what the hell, I might as well vacuum the house.

Tonight is probably my last night here. I have no idea how long processing out will take tomorrow. I just pray that there are no last minute hiccoughs with the judge. (To be continued…)©2009

24 October 2009

Involuntary Commitment—Days 4 through 9, Tuesday through Sunday, 13-18 October

(...continued from previous post)
The day-to-day routine got old really fast. So far I have been able to hoodwink my psychiatrist and primary therapist (the two responsible for reporting back to the court) that I am indeed improving. However, and this is where I think the healthcare industry has a fine racquet going on—I was told on Day 5 (remember, my minimum legal hold was five to seven days not counting weekends, so Day 5 in real time was only actually Day 3 legally) by both of them that they were still unwilling to sign my release papers for at least two more days. That would bring me through Friday forcing me to stay another weekend. Their chief concern was that I lived alone and had no visible support structure to return to (OK, here is where I sorta fucked up…no one knew I was here and I had no visitors or phone calls). Translation: I needed to stay on until they felt I had sufficient time to develop and practice those oh so cool coping skills (a decided subjective scale I was being graded on).

So, for each of these days I towed the party line as best I could. During this time on Day 6, my roommate was discharged and for the first time I enjoyed having some actual privacy—well, as good as it got if you don’t count all the nurses and techs constantly sticking their heads in to make sure I was doing “fine.” Of course I was!

On Day 7 (legal Day 5), I was told that it was a reasonable expectation that I could be discharged on the 20 October, next Tuesday, followed by two weeks of outpatient therapy and one additional week just regrouping at home before I had to return to work. So I called my manager back and left a voicemail indicating that 9 November was a potential return to work date. I also gave him the fax number of the hospital to give to the medical disability company (thankfully, an outsourced function due to HIPAA regulations—my employer does not get to know where or why I am here) so that FMLA paperwork could be filed and I would continue to be paid. It was nice to know I still had some time before I had to go back to my incredibly stressful job.

Days 8 and 9 (the weekend) was not so bad. Yeah, there were still groups to go to, although the schedule was pared back and not as rigid. A lot more down time for me. The weather was autumn beautiful and with the extra smoke breaks, I got to spend a lot more time outside in the sun. My privacy/solitude bubble was burst Saturday night. There was a new female admit and they assigned her to my room. Boy was I pissed. And I thought I was getting royally screwed. She was only 17 years old (she should have been in the adolescent unit but there were no beds, so I was stuck with her until one opened up). Geez, all I needed was some whiney, needy teenager to share my breathing space.

By the time she had processed her admission paperwork it was already late in the evening. I purposely took my evening meds earlier than usual (we had a one-hour swing on when we could take our 2100 hrs meds…any time from 2000 to 2200 hrs). I turned off the lights in my room (but I did leave the bathroom light on with the curtain drawn), hit the sack and pretended to be asleep when she came in, hoping that she would be too intimidated to turn the lights on and “wake” me up. It worked beautifully.

This morning, when we had our 0530 vitals taken, I said absolutely nothing and simply walked out the room to catch the first smoke break of the day. When I came back to the room still saying nothing, I went into the bathroom and took a long enough shower so she would be gone for breakfast by the time I got out. The rest of the morning was busy work with group therapy, and during the lull before lunchtime, I sat on my side of the room at my desk writing in this journal. She picked up the hint. She said nary a word.

(later) Well, it’s 1945. Time for the last, although most informal, group meeting for the day (a la “what new things did I learn about myself today” bullshit). It’s run by one of the techs and mostly we had to fill out this required check sheet and turn it in (how many times could I word the same bullshit in different ways each night surprised even me). My roommate has continued to stay quiet. Now, mind you, I haven’t been ugly or mean, or even rude to her by a long shot. I’ve simply shown no interest in wanting to get to know her, much less have a conversation.

As soon as group is over at 2000 hrs, I will spend the rest of evening outside until I have to take my evening meds at 2200 hrs. Thank God for such beautiful weather. I would go stir crazy (no pun intended) if I had to stay indoors for the entire weekend (yeah, even in the rain we still take our smoke breaks as there is a covered patio we can sit under aside from the rather nice back yard they have here). The campus is fairly large as each unit has their own “back yard.” Ours backs up to the detox unit’s, but, believe this or not, while inside the building each unit is locked separately apart from each other, we are not allowed to interact through the fence with the detox unit patients while we are outside. Crazy rules for crazy people.

Tomorrow is Monday, back to the weekday grind. Hopefully, only two days to go. (To be continued…)©2009

Involuntary Commitment—Day 3, Monday 12 October

(...continued from previous post)
Morning vitals still showed my BP to be very elevated, so they started me on yet another medication. Actually, in this case, they added an additional med (lisinopril) along with a prn order for Tylenol for my headache (like that’s gonna do me any good—no, not drug seeking behaviour attitude, but give me a break…Tylenol??? At least Excedrin has the caffeine in it like those old APC compounds you used to be able to get which worked great for headaches…aspirin, phenacetin and caffeine). I was actually more concerned about the dizziness.

Monday morning…I’d finally get to see what kind of shrink they lined up for me. That’s when I was told the “good” news. My court-ordered 72-hour hold had now been stretched into a minimum five to seven days starting with today (get this….weekends don’t count!). While I was pissed off as shit, I mustered my best façade from the get-go, determined to get the fuck out of Dodge ASAP. I could play their games. Been there, done that. I was required to attend all group therapy sessions as a condition of my release along with participating in their outpatient treatment center after release (not a long-term thing, perhaps two to three weeks tops). So I looked appropriately cheerful and eager to understand all about my labeled diagnoses (no surprise here…Bipolar 1 and Borderline Personality Disorder). Read all the handouts they gave me so I could spit it out effectively in group to also include being able to identify what my triggers were and the supposed corresponding effective coping skills (this place was steeped in DBT…don’t even get me started with that subject). Now, granted, coping skills can work IF you choose to use them. Personally, I just no longer give a damn. But they didn’t need to know that. I now began marking off my time to discharge (picture the prison wall with hash marks on it…LOL).

The other patients were a pain in the neck. I made myself as unapproachable as possible. There was one exception, however. There was an Army vet with PTSD that was in the same boat I was. Neither of us wanted to be there (well, I get that no one WANTED to be there). Neither of us wanted to interact with anyone else, and soon we ended up isolating ourselves together against the herd. He was doing the same as me…The Master Façade. During our limited, brief conversations we both realized that we actually “got it” about each other. No, we didn’t hang together, but when forced into a group of people, we could isolate together. Nothing ever had to be said, and no one ever bothered us for the most part. We took great pains to dare anyone to even come up to us and start a conversation (this whole attitude was, of course, after all the official therapists and shrinks left for the day. During the day, all of us were always being observed, so I had to tow the party line for at least some part of the day).

The schedule was quite structured. My only freedom was the frequent smoke breaks and choosing not to eat the meals. Having to sit with everyone in the cafeteria listening to their chirpy, Xanax-driven banter was more than I could handle. And I got so fucking tired of the other patients who actually dared approach me asking me how I felt (like the response, “How the fuck to you THINK I feel?” wouldn’t be so far out of line), why didn’t I smile more, why didn’t I socialize with the group, etc., etc., etc. A simple reply of “fuck you” usually did the trick (again, after hours).

I survived the various group therapy sessions. Thankfully, the current census of 17 patients was split into two smaller groups, so that made it palliative. Yes I participated and spoke (I considered it the ultimate audition), and yes, I offered what appeared to be constructive feedback when others spoke (oh how I had to censor what came out of my mouth). I did what I had to just to make it through the day. And God, what a long day it was. (the hardest one to endure was the rec therapy where they forced us to have “fun.” If I was going to lose any points it was gonna be with this session.) I could actually breathe a sigh of relief once dinnertime came around and all the psych staff left for the day. I felt like I could let my guard down somewhat. Yeah, I couldn’t be blatant about my “fuck you” attitude as a nurse could always write something in my chart for my therapist to see the next day, but they weren’t around in our faces all the time, so I could pretty much get away with it And the thing about skipping the meals was no big deal. Evidently, the dietary folks kept the two huge refrigerators we had access to loaded with fresh fruits, veggies and juices. The only thing missing was caffeine. All the coffee and teas were decaffeinated. The ironic part was that we had access to vending machines with drinks. I found Mountain Dew to be highly effective in combating caffeine withdrawal today. I don’t particularly like carbonated beverages, but one does what one must—necessity is the mother of invention. Luckily, I actually had a bunch of singles in my wallet that I could get access to upon request.

So, the day finally winded down, I took my evening meds (my BP was finally getting under better control), disappeared to my room, sacked out on the bed and just stared at the ceiling (I didn’t really envision getting any better sleep here than I did when I was at home) until the tech would roll around at 0530 to start taking morning vitals. Oh goodie, yet another day to endure. (To be continued…)©2009

Involuntary Commitment—Day 2, Sunday 11 October

(…continued from previous post)
I woke up with the hangover from hell, but I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I would be transported to my ultimate end destination soon. I asked where I was to be shipped and breathed a sigh of relief. I had been there before in 2005 with a previous overdose. I was afraid that the first available bed to open up was going to be at the state-run facility—a place I had never seen, but about which I had heard horrible things.

This private facility houses five different units: geriatrics, adolescents, detox, the certified, thorazine drooling-in-your-oatmeal lunatics, and the unit I was assigned to—adults classified as mood disordered and/or dual diagnosis (mood disorders plus alcohol/chemical dependence) and PTSD.

My unit was comprised of quite a cross-section of the human population. The patients had either self-checked in realizing that they required additional help, or were on the other side of the coin like me: court-ordered involuntary commitment as a direct result of an attempted suicide gone wrong (translation: we were the unlucky few who survived our erstwhile efforts). In every case, it all came down to one thing: everyone was either seriously considering cashing in their chips, or had actually tried and failed.

The age range was equally as diverse. During my stay, the oldest was a 71-year-old woman (you’d never have guessed by looking and listening to her) and the youngest was a 17-year-old dropout who, by all normal rules should have been on the adolescent wing, but there were no available beds. I remember the night she checked in, arms sliced to ribbons. For her, it was her cutting ritual gone out of control rather than a slice-the-wrist suicide attempt.

I had more difficulty with the younger patients—those roughly 18-23. To hear them talk as they cycled through, it almost became a game of one upmanship to see just how far each pushed the envelope in their suicide attempts. What a new spin on competition.

I was lucky enough to have a few older folks around (50+ years) like me to help balance out the group. None of them let the kids get away with their bullshit. Me? I was always on the sidelines, on the outside looking in. I always kept my distance from everyone—my walls and mask surfaced the minute I crossed the threshold. I did not want to be here; I had nothing to accomplish here. My sole goal was simply to go through the motions until the judge signed my release papers.

Anyway, the trip over took about 30 minutes. There was the usual admission paperwork followed by a normal history and pseudo-physical. Again, my blood pressure was skyrocketing, even though the numbers had come down since they started the clonidine HCL. All I wanted to do at this point was to lie down and go to sleep.

I was shown my room (unfortunately this one already had another person assigned as well, so I was stuck with a roommate). They gave me back my sandals and watch, and provided me with a few pair of real scrubs to change into. They also provided minimal necessary toiletries since I came in with nothing. Evidently, all of the other patients were off doing lunch or some type of group therapy. I told my nurse that I wasn’t hungry, but that I would like to take a hot shower and go to bed. She was very pleasant and understanding and left me alone…actually ALONE.

After my long, hot shower, I hand washed my underwear and set them out to dry. I put on one of the pair of scrubs and just collapsed onto the bed. I actually slept hard throughout the afternoon and was finally awakened by some tech to take my blood pressure yet again. It was still well above normal despite the medication. I finally put two and two together and figured out that my “hangover” (hammering headache from hell and feeling quite dizzy) was due to my escalated BP.

Slept through dinner and most of the evening minus the BP checks. Since I had been admitted over the weekend after the docs had already seen their patients that morning, there were still no standing orders for me except for the clonidine that came over from the previous joint. However, the nurse was concerned that my BP wasn’t really responding effectively to the clonidine, so she put in a call to my assigned doctor. He changed the medication and told her to keep monitoring me every 30 minutes.

To make a long story short, I was eventually rushed back to the nearest ER by ambulance. The new medication was not reducing the BP (in fact, it had risen) and my attendant symptoms were worsening. Upon arrival I was taken immediately back (mind you, I now have THREE separate hospital bracelets on my arm). They hooked me up to a cardiac monitor, started some O2, two IVs and some serious IV BP shit. They were also nice enough to ask me if I wanted something for my headache (being that it was known I was on “suicide precaution” which included being accompanied by one of the psych facility’s techs, I just assumed any request on my part for pain medication would be interpreted as drug seeking behaviour, so I didn’t even bother to try). What a relief when the vise came off my head.

I finally left that ER at 0500, hit the sack and just stared at the ceiling just waiting for the next day to start all over again. (To be continued…)©2009