I’ve been to three mental hospitals in my life. Two when I was a teenager and one as an adult. Each one was different than the others; but the reasonings behind why I was there were all kind of similar.
I was beginning my teen years when my struggle with an unstable mental health started. I went about three years of being really depressed and isolating myself, before I attempted suicide, my sophomore year of high school (November 19th, 2007). I was sent to the first of my three hospitalizations; and to me, this first hospital is what you’d expect from all of those horror movies that involved psych hospitals. It was terrifying to me. I told myself that the patients truly deserved to be there, and my problems seemed to small in comparison to theirs. So I did exactly what I needed to do in order to be able to be discharged. I faked it. And when my time came, I didn’t feel any better than I had when I went in, but I was so happy to be going home. I kept thinking that I had successfully faked my way through there, so maybe I could fake my way through life.
By the time I reached my junior year of high school, faking it wasn’t going so well for me. I lost all hope in life. I didn’t see anything left for me. I was hurting; sad all of the time. I was a burden to everyone around me. I didn’t want to be here anymore. So I tried to take my own life for the second time. And you guessed it, a second suicide attempt meant I was off to my second hospitalization. There, I felt a little more like I belonged. My problems didn’t seem to small; I really believed that those patients were “my” people. They were just like me. Sad, hurting, living their lives as a disappointment to everyone. But after a few days there, I knew that I didn’t have to live my life feeling like that anymore. So I put in the effort to actually make an improvement and get better. After a two week stay, I was finally discharged. I took my after care seriously. I stayed with my medications and my counseling. I tried my best to continue my coping skills and making those positive changes that I needed. Cutting ties with friends that were toxic, replacing negative self talk with things that were more positive. I started to really feel better.
Over the years though, things changed. I wasn’t always medicated like I should have been. I didn’t always go to counseling. I began to listen to the negativity, both from myself and outsiders. Life just kept getting worse for me. My struggles didn’t seem to have an ending; one thing after another no matter how hard I tried to change that. I had lost hope and decided that this is how my life was meant to be lived.
And since I am being totally honest, I should let you know that over those years from my junior year of high school to present day, things weren’t always bad. I had some great times actually. I’ve had 4 kids. Moved out of my parents house (heck I even moved out of the town I grew up in). I am certified as a medical assistant. (Just to name a few.) Life has certainly had its up sides too. But if you know me at all, or have gathered anything from reading my blog, you’d know that sometimes it’s hard for me to focus on the good when I know bad usually follows within a week or so.
So lets fast forward about seven years to today, 2019. I was hospitalized again recently. No, I didn’t attempt suicide this time; but I certainly had a plan set so that I could. Instead of swallowing those pills though, I decided to reache out first. So, I reached out to my husband and I reached out to a friend. My friend reached out to my husband because it was unknown that I had already spoke to him. My husband reached out to my parents who helped him come up with a plan quickly to get me to the E.R. After being assessed by nurses, a nurse practitioner and the community mental health, it was determined that I needed to be admitted somewhere safe. Because I, in fact, was a danger to myself.
I went willingly. I knew something was wrong with me. I had felt so low, so ugly, anxious and unwanted. I was angry all the time. Lashing out at my kids and my husband. I’d cry. A lot. Over little things, over big things, and simply over nothing at all. Nothing made sense to me. Why was I feeling so overwhelmed? Why did I hurt so bad? Why did a blade pressed against my skin give me so much relief again?
Three hospitalizations for my mental health. And this last time was the very first time that I confidently left feeling like I could survive this life, and this world that we live in. I’m not sure if it’s because I am an adult now, so I was obviously in an adult unit. If it was because the way the patients were separated into different units that fit them best. Maybe it was because I was able to connect with my nursing staff, the psych techs, my case manager and doctors, even some patients.
I left with coping skills that I can actually use. And a better ability to talk about what is going on inside my head. I left with confidence to be able to deal with my past so that I can begin to heal. All of those things I would not have had, had I not willingly gone to an inpatient program. Having a positive attitude this time around about wanting and needing help really made the difference for me. I was in an awful place; a very scary place. I knew if I had continued on that road that I’d for sure end up dead. So I cried out for help and thankfully help came.
Beautifully Chaotic 