Out again

So I spent the past week or so inpatient at the behavioral health hospital again. I will give you a brief rundown of why I went and what happened there.

The 23rd I had my appointment with the priest who does deliverance rites. It was awful for a million reasons, the worst being that I had oppressive, vivid visions of throwing myself out the chapel window. That whole evening I was very stressed and was having terrible thoughts of throwing myself into traffic.

The 24th started off bad. My dad was on me for something my husband did when I was already having the thoughts so I went out to the busy street right by their house. Unfortunately (well, fortunately actually) the traffic was only going like 25 MPH because of the fog so all it would have done was break my leg and freaked them out so instead I stabbed myself repeatedly with a safety pin (as I had done the day before in the chapel) to focus my brain and calm down. At my outpatient program that day they could see something was wrong and decided to commit me. In the hospital I met with my Psychiatrist, Dr. A**hole, and he agreed to increase my anti-psychotic medicine. I discovered at bedtime that he did not.

On the 25th I was transferred from the geriatric floor where I had been waiting for a bed in ITU or CBU. I got a room in ITU and discovered that a gal who had been there during my last stay was still there so that was nice. I met with Dr. A**hole again, he again agreed to up the med. Come bedtime, I discover he has still not ordered the increase. On this night I snuck a plastic knife out of the lunch room and I attempted to slice open my wrist. It was extremely painful and the knife couldn't get through after the first few layers.

On the 26th I felt like all the life had left me. I didn't want to see anyone or talk to anyone. I literally sat around staring at nothing if and when I got out of bed. Dr. A**hole visited again and complained about my behavior and agreed, yet again, to increase my Seroquil. I figured out that my lower stomach has no feeling from my c-sections and would therefore be an ideal place cut myself open in order to kill myself. I snuck more knives from the lunch room (even though staff knew about my previous attempt, no one did anything about it) and started to cut open my lower belly in the shower that night. It did not hurt but it was very difficult. It was taking too long so I had to stop my work and get out of the shower and go to bed. At bedtime (which is when they give meds) I discovered that Dr. A**hole had once again failed to increase my medicine. I threw a bit of a fit and they called him at home and he ordered a 50 mg increase even though he had promised a 100mg increase.

On the 27th I was in the deepest, darkest hole I have ever been in. I didn't care about anything or anyone. I wouldn't even let my husband bring my kids to see me. Dr. A**hole and my case manager came to visit me together and asked how I was doing. I told them I no longer cared if they kept me or sent me home, I had a plan (for suicide) either way. The doctor asked me what my plan was. I hesitated to answer saying that if I told him he would go in my stuff and take my implements away. Doc told me I had to be straight with him so I explained my plan about my desensitized lower abdomen and using plastic knives from the lunch room that night. He agreed to order the additional 50mg increase in my anti-psychotic medicine and he actually did it. This conversation was held after lunch so I expected to not be allowed to go to the lunch room for dinner, but I did get to go. I was able to get a second knife (I already had one from lunch that day) during dinner. I figured I would be put on line of sight and would have to figure a way to sneak or wait until I went home. But I was not put on line of sight. Dr. A**hole and my case manager had not told anyone about my plan. I know this sounds sacrilegious now, but at the time it was like a sign from God that I was doing the right thing. Living was the selfish option and He had cleared the way for me to what needed to be done. So I went in the bathroom and got to work. And boy was it work. Plastic knives were not meant for this purpose and it took forever. I made it through nurses checking in on me twice without them noticing the blood at my feet and the knife in my hand. A couple hours after I had started, the new shift nurse came in, opened the bathroom door and caught me. I was taken by ambulance to the associated Med Center's ER where I slept while they stitched me up with no anesthesia. When we got back to my unit, I was put in an observation room to sleep for the rest of the night.

On the 29th I woke up to my case manager asking why I did it when I had been doing so well. Yes, the same case manager I had told my exact detailed plan to didn't understand why I had done it. Then my breakfast was brought in. No utensils. Not even a spoon. Now I understand not letting me go to the lunch room anymore (duh) and I get taking away my knife and fork, but taking away my spoon was just punitive and nasty. They expected me to eat cream of wheat with my fingers. I had to eat my eggs with my fingers. Like an animal. A little later Dr. A**hole comes in asking why I did it. I reminded him that I had told him exactly what I was going to do. He got very angry and said I was a borderline personality (I am actually diagnosed major depressive) and I was trying to manipulate him. He said I only tried to kill myself to show him up. Can you fricking believe that? What and arrogant son of a b****! I explained that my reasons had been the same from the beginning: living was the selfish option because my kids would be better off without me. He walked away.

There is more to the story but I am going to play games with my hubby right now.

God Bless all who read this.

Courageous?

So I had my appointments today. My PCP adjusted my meds and extended my leave. The hospital thinks I need at minimum partial hospitalization (which would basically mean I would eat dinner and sleep at home) but full inpatient would be better. I spent most of those appointments convincing people that I would not hurt myself between today and Friday. I promised all parties that I would not do anything and would show up Friday morning. Keeping that promise is proving difficult this evening.

Then I went to my shrink and he said I was courageous. Courageous? I think that is the fruitiest thing he has said so far. He said I was courageous but then he was afraid to delve any too deeply for fear of setting off the suicidal thoughts. Little does he know that I spend my days googling methods that could appear to be accidental and pulling my hair out. I find myself hoping that the ache in my skull means that the damage I did to it last week has caused a slow bleed that will eventually kill me. I wasn't trying to kill myself when I hit my head but it would be ironic if death worked out to be an unintended side effect. Then it will have done its job of calming me in the moment and then gone above and beyond its duty.

My son was playing car pirates tonight and he sang, "what do you do with a scurvy pirate?" He then said in his sweet big guy voice, "I would kill my mommy." Seems like a sign, don't you think?

God Bless all who read this.

The countdown begins

I have appointments with my shrink, my doc and the hospital on Monday.

I am hopeful and terrified at the same time. I am hopeful that the focus and intensive therapy will get me back to my normal self again. I am terrified for a whole host of reasons.

First it scares me that this is what I really need. I know that makes no sense but I am not used to being, well, crazy. PPD was one thing. It was contained and had a definitive source and usually a definitive end. This nebulous bouncing from nearly normal to suicidal is uncomfortable. Also, I am scared this isn't what I really need. If I am wrong in the head, how can I trust my experience of what is going on there? In my rational mind I know it is not normal to think constantly about plunging a knife into one's own chest or ear or to want to drive off the freeway. In my rational mind I know that I cannot going on feeling that my family would be better off without me..

And that right there is my biggest fear. We are going to go through all this time and expense, and I may lose my job, and I just don't think it is worth it. Most all of the people in my day to day life would be better off without me. Their lives would be substantively improved by my absence, even those who would have a temporary upset from the loss. How can I ask them, then, to go to so much trouble to keep me here?

I wish most forms of suicide were not so flagrantly evident. Of course, since everyone knows I am suicidal, I could have a genuine car accident and they will probably think it is suicide anyway.

I need to make an appointment with my priest. I need to have my confession heard and get the anointing of the sick.

Please for God's will in my life.

God Bless all who read this.