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 24
th 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 25
th 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 26
th 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 27
th 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 29
th 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.
