I was dying.

At the beginning of last September, I almost died.  I'm not being dramatic; I almost lost my life.  My mental health had been in a decline for almost two years, and I think my brain and body just gave up.  For reasons I'll explain a little later, I don't remember a lot of the details of what happened, but between my memories and what my husband has told me, I do know a few key things, and I want you to know them, too, so you can better understand psychiatric hospitalization.

For one, I decided it was no longer safe to have my guns in our apartment.  That has never happened to me before.  I grew up with guns; they've always been a part of my life.  They've always been in my house.  I used to keep my home-defense shotgun hidden behind my old prom dresses.  But for the first time, I was afraid of what might happen if I let the guns stick around.  I called my grandpa, who lives a couple of towns over, and I asked if my husband and I could stop by.  When we got there, I wish I could remember better what happened.  I'd imagine he was pretty alarmed.  He has already lost one grandchild to suicide.  I remember him locking the guns in one of his gun safes, I remember we didn't talk much, and then I know we left.

It's important to note that I didn't have a suicide plan.  I didn't have a specific reason to get rid of the guns; I just felt like it was a bad idea to keep them around.

A few days later, things were even worse.  Every hour dragged on and on and on and on and on and on and on.  I remember feeling like every hour felt like an entire day.  I knew I didn't really want to die, but all I could think, over and over, was, "I can't live like this any more."  My mental pain was seeping out my pores.  My will to live was growing dimmer and dimmer, like a firefly glowing its last as the winter frost sets in.  Nothing could distract me from the pain and exhaustion of just existing - not Netflix, not knitting, nothing.  I used every tool I had the energy to try, but nothing alleviated my suffering.  And I couldn't accomplish anything - not even brushing my hair. 

I had my husband come with me to therapy that evening.  We were only there for a few minutes before my therapist told us that if ever there was a time for hospitalization, this was it.  I thought he meant at the end of the session, but he didn't.  He meant now.  And he told us which area hospital was the best.  Since it was an hour away, we headed home to pack a bag for me before driving up there.  We didn't know how long it would be before my husband would be able to visit and bring the things I would need.  Clothes, books, a hairbrush, and the lightsaber travel toothbrush he got me on our honeymoon.  And with that, we were off to the ER.

This post is long enough as it is, and I don't have the energy at the moment to write the rest of the story.  But I will.  Soon.

The Loonies in the Bin

Usually when I write, the idea gestates for a while until it feels like it is fully formed.  Only then do I get out my laptop and push the thing out.  It's not something I can control; the ideas won't come from my fingertips until they're fully formed.  Well, I've been promising posts on my hospitalization and ECT experience for months, but they just won't come.  They don't feel ready.  I've tried to force them, and the snippets I've written were laughable.  So I'm going to try a different tack today.  I'm going to try to write around the topic.  Maybe if I can get out some of the less important details, the water will break and the real posts can be born.  Please bear with me; this is not my best writing.  It can't even really be called good writing, but I have to get it out.

One thing that kind of surprised me about my hospitalizations is how normal all of my fellow inmates were.  Every single person in Four North, the ward I spent most of my time in, was someone you would meet on the street and never suspect.  You'd never know we were all nuts.

Rebecca  (Don't worry, I'm changing everyone's name.  The only loony you need to be able to identify by name is me.) was a mom right around my age who had the most adorable little black baby with curly blond hair.  She never ate lunch with the rest of us because her family always came to eat with her.  It was fun to see the baby every day.

Annie was also doing ECT.  She seemed like a slightly more jaded, grown-up version of me.  She had awesome hair (how? I have no idea- it's not like they let us have curling irons) and a snarky sense of humor.

Adam had driven in from out of state to stay there with us.  He was there for the ECT, too.  I swear he was just like every other dude.  He was into cars and had great cowboy boots.  He also had a wicked sense of humor.

Adrian was my best friend in there.  He was a guy who made me feel valued and understood.  Whenever I was down, he would talk to me and make me laugh.  He had a quiet strength.  I accidentally misgendered him once, and I felt SO bad, but he was SO cool about it.  (If you read this, dude, just know I still feel bad, and I'm so grateful for your understanding!)  Making friends with Adrian was a new experience for me - I'd never met anyone trans before - and I'm so grateful we met!  My husband and I even got to go to his wedding a few weeks after I left the bin.  A very cool guy.

Were you hoping I'd be telling you stories of people who talked to themselves in imaginary languages or wore their underwear outside their straight jackets?  Sorry.  Everyone there was just like me - someone who needed a little help to get back on their feet, but who was otherwise normal.  ECT has stolen the memories of nearly everyone else from my mind, but I assure you: they were all normal.  Perhaps next I'll tell you the story of how little old normal me ended up there in the first place.  Thank you for your patience!