My time in the psych ward

In third grade someone invited me to do something I wasn’t ready to do. My innocence was stolen. That year I tried to throw myself down a flight of stairs to kill myself. Fast-forward through a few counseling sessions and made-up lies, I hit 7th grade. We wrote these letters to ourselves that we got to open our senior year of high school. Mine talked about how I didn’t deserve to live and as long as I was doing things for others or sacrificing myself for others happiness then that was all that mattered. Sophomore year of high school I would pop a bunch of pills and drink a ton of alcohol in hopes the two would mix and I could die. My friend caught on and told my parents. My parents were sad (of course) and sent me back to counseling. This time it got real. I lost a bunch of weight, stopped eating, quit doing life. I was miserable… But my mom was dying and how could I be miserable over something so dumb while she was literally miserable because she was given a death sentence. I was put on meds and given a person to discuss my issues with. This lady didn’t really dig too deep, so it was easy to surface level my life and give her what she wanted. I watched my mom breathe her last breath. I pushed those feelings inside and kept living. Freshmen year of college and my high-school boy dumps me. I was crushed. I became an obsessive person who worked out too much, didn’t eat, stopped going to classes and cried myself to sleep every night. Sophomore year and I meet a guy who changes my world. Taught me about racism, diversity, and how the world wasn’t as smooth as I thought. I got drunk at a friend’s birthday and had sex with my then best guy friend. Cheated. The desire of dying had never been so real. Every night I would call my boyfriend and tell him how sorry I was while I held a knife in my hand. Or I would dump out all my pills and try to take them while he screamed at me to stop. I couldn’t forgive myself. I became this person I was more than devastated to be. And like the person that I am, I didn’t deal with my issues and I stuffed them away. College boy and me broke up. I met someone else. He wrecked me. All the fears and irrational thoughts I had before came flying at me. I was a whore. I was a bad person. I didn’t deserve to be alive. He hoped I would die. I wanted to die. I was left and tormented. And I deserved it. I would beg for forgiveness and ask him to stop, but nothing could calm the rage inside. Nothing could stop that storm and it only intensified the fire inside of me. I was burning from the inside out and I didn’t know what could extinguish me. About a year later I found Jesus and a hope I didn’t have before began to burn inside of me instead of self-hatred. I found friends and happiness that wasn’t fake. I found a peace that I didn’t know existed. I started working at a dental office and I thought life was finally going to be on track… then one day I had a panic attack. I started to be irrational and the tears came and just kept coming. I couldn’t stop them. I wanted to die. It was an urge I didn’t have before. I’ve always wanted to die, but not like this. I wanted to leave work and grab a knife and slit my wrists. Before I imagined popping pills or swallowing bleach and slipping away in my sleep. But this day it came full force and I had to leave to go home and slit my wrists. I drove myself to the ER in hopes they’d give me some Xanax and I could calm my nerves and be on my way. (I still had my hope then and Jesus was definitely on my side). But the ER didn’t do what I wanted. Instead they stripped me down into a red paper suit. Paper pants and paper shirt–bright red. The whole hospital knew where I was going. They had a police officer escort my paper-ness and hunched-over blubbering mess into the psych ward. They took my belongings, my phone, my clothes, my purse, everything and locked it up in this closet after they searched my body for weapons. They brought me upstairs to the crazy house (I can say this because I’ve been there) and had me room with someone who thought she was my mom. I spent two nights there before my boyfriend forced them to let me leave. You see, when you get locked up in the looney-bin they put a 96 hour hold on you. But I wasn’t going to make it 96 hours. The floor was relatively nice. The nurses and doctors had their shit together. But the patients did not. I was surrounded by people who didn’t know who they were, patients who were super violent and physical, and people who were forced to come by the law. I didn’t talk to a doctor until my final day there, even though they promised me a doctor/counselor after my first night. She told me she thought I was faking my mental instability and depression and that she loved diagnosing people with this disorder. (I can’t remember the name). She immediately went into diagnosis instead of listening to me. She wasn’t helpful. I wasn’t getting help. I was having a mental breakdown in the worst possible place. I finally got out. I started counseling (again) and more medication. I wish I could say I’m healed now, but I’m not. Just last week I cried myself to sleep while I held all my pills in my hands and thought about meeting my maker. I didn’t sleep for two days so I had to bust out the good ole sleeping pills. My depression has never found an ending. My thoughts have never vanished forever. Every single day and every single minute I fight against the urge to throw myself in front of a moving car or to drown myself in pills and booze. I have a wonderful life and I finally have HOPE but it doesn’t change the little person inside my brain. I wish I could say he was gone. And I wish I could say my time in the psych ward cured me. It didn’t. I’ve tried yoga, mediation, medication, running, exercise, counseling, church, talking to people, blogging, writing, crying, home-remedies, etc. I haven’t found a way to turn off the little man. But it is easier now to want to live. I have dreams and hopes. I want to be a mom. I want to see my nanny kiddos grow up. I want to keep my siblings from burying me. And I want to see what God has in store for me. I didn’t write this blog to get sympathy–my life is actually pretty solid. I wanted to write this because it’s fucking okay. It’s okay to feel like you aren’t going to make it. That one more thing might actually crush you. It’s okay to let your emotions get clogged up and then burst when it makes zero sense to other people. It’s okay to have to use the psych ward to prevent yourself from ending your life. And it’s really okay to feel like you want to die. BUT DO NOT DO IT. People around you, physicians, boyfriends/girlfriends/lovers, friends, everyday citizens may not understand it. And they might tell you to just get over it. But you know what, I UNDERSTAND. and MILLIONS of other people have felt like this and they get it. Don’t be afraid to reach out. Don’t be afraid to spend 3 miserable days in the psych ward if that’s what keeps you alive. Just remember, no matter how hard it gets, it can get better. It won’t be easy. And it sure as hell won’t be over night, but it can get better. I promise. We are still so behind in the medical world when it comes to mental illness. Doctors mean the best and the psych ward isn’t made to make you feel the way I felt. But there are too many people and so many disorders. Give it a chance. And don’t be afraid to talk to someone. Even if it’s a stranger. Our lives aren’t meant to be cut short by our own doing

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