It Was A Long Time Coming: Mental Breakdown, Hospitalization and Road to Recovery, Part 2

CONTENT WARNING: mentions of suicide, general upsetting themes, mentions of hospital settings, mentions of law enforcement.

PART 2

The next day, at five am, I woke up, stomach churning; when I’m anxious, it manifests as digestive issues, and I was understandably anxious. What if someone tried to stop me? I’d already had that one man in the station try to do just that. I was absolutely determined to do this, and I wouldn't let anyone or anything stop me.

I went to the bathroom, showered, dressed for the day, going over my plan in my head, running through the details. I didn’t want to mess this up.

And then, a knock at the door.

I felt panic then, wondered if it was a house keeper, doing their rounds, but it was a little early for that. I went over to the door, and saw the police through the peephole. Clearly, I’d been found out.

Glancing towards the window, I wondered if I would be able to jump out of it, then very quickly realized that wouldn’t kill me. It was able to be opened, but the latch looked rusted, difficult to undo, and I knew the police would break down the door if they thought I was trying to flee.

So I went to the door, stomach sinking, hoping I could convince them everything was just peachy, that they would leave me alone.

I opened the door. It was a man and a woman, and I later found out my sister had called the police back in the city where I lived; she lived in an entirely different, third city from me. The PD there had gotten in contact with the PD in the city where they suspected where I was, and tracked me down through my cellphone; for all my planning, I had forgotten to turn off the GPS on my phone.

They wanted to check I was okay. I said I was. They asked me to go to the hospital, just to get checked out, and that I would be out in the afternoon. I got the sense it wasn’t a choice, and that my being out by the afternoon was a lie, and I guess I just sort of...deflated.

I was allowed to pack up the things I’d brought with me. They escorted me outside to a waiting ambulance. I asked to have a cigarette before we left. Said I was upset, and they said yes. Sure. I also suspected it would be a while before I could have one again. I wasn't a mad nicotine fiend, smoking a pack a day; I smoked maybe five or six a day, but I hadn't been able to have my morning smoke yet, and even as my plans were falling apart around me, I was a creature of habit.

We made small chat, mostly. They told me my sister had been the one to contact the police. I found out later that my mother had been in the same city the weekend I’d gone missing, not looking for me, but rather, taking a vacation with her married boyfriend. Yeah, you read that right.

(Incidentally, finding this out was one of the last straws for me, but it would be another three years before I finally got up the courage to cut that narcissist out of my life).

I was admitted to the hospital under the Mental Health Act, an involuntary admittance. The male officer gave me his phone, told me it was my sister on the other end. She…she was clearly pretty upset, and it was then that I finally realized someone did care. She had no reason to, as, quite frankly, I’d been awful to her when we were kids, but there it was. I didn’t feel relief. Just guilt. How could she care? I’d made her life absolute hell.

They took my belongings. I had to strip down in front of a nurse, although I was allowed to hold up a gown in front of me when I asked. I didn’t like people touching me, let alone looking at me. I had a lot of self hatred and body image issues, and this was just he icing on the cake for this.

It was pretty dehumanizing.

They hooked me up to a monitor. My BP was 142/94. I remember that very clearly. They gave me a sedative I would become acquainted with over the next few weeks called Seroquel, 25mg twice a day. I was in the Emergency Department for three and a half days, drugged up as hell, doing nothing but eating, sleeping and taking to doctors. On the third day, they let me have the book I'd been trying to finish-it was Neil Gaiman's American Gods, and that book means so much to me now-I read it twice while in the hospital, and it was certainly a big part of my recovery, silly as that sounds.

At some point, I must have told them about my mother; they asked if I was still wanting her to stay away if she inquired about me. The answer to that was an emphatic yes. I had apparently also told them about one my earliest memories; my mother had begun teaching me to tie my laces when I was four or five, and when I hadn’t gotten it right off the bat, she’d thrown one of my shoes at my face.

Yeah.

That woman should never have had kids.

Oh, and I still have that book, shown up above-I always read it when things are getting a little tough, and...surprisingly, it helps.