The Day Hospital and Beyond

Once upon a time, in the days before Uber, I took a cab from my glitzy corporate job where I drank designer coffee drinks and carried designer, overpriced handbags (which I still do because they are AWESOME), and was dropped off at one the premier hospitals in Chicago. I was there because my then husband called a psyche intake meeting for my botched suicide attempt.

I wasn’t even the one that told him. My boss did. I was at work filing and she told me I looked like hell. I told her I took a handful of sleeping pills the night before and spent the subsequent hours puking them up but I didn’t want to call in because it was a Monday after a holiday weekend. So she tattled on me. My husband passively handled the situation by calling the Day Hospital of the facility, and I was there to meet the intake case worker.

So I told him my story, which is typical of most stories; massive, long term depression, endless anxiety, undiagnosed ADHD which was making me feel stupid and putting my fancy job at risk, undiagnosed bi-polar which caused endless fights between myself and my then husband because I was a crazy person that couldn’t be reasoned with and then would just sob when he’d had enough and he’d have to get the hell out of there. I’d be all confused as to why he’d walk out on a screaming woman who had no idea what she was screaming about.

But all of that isn’t what sent me over the edge. It was the epic highs and darkening lows that finally did me in. I could walk in Chicago winters with no coat on forever and feel like I had some kind of super power against the elements. I could sink to beyond the below in a hot minute because someone didn’t reply to my phone message quick enough. Convinced that they hated me, I’d churn my mind over and over to figure out what I had done wrong. In as much, I'd badger the person, who was just too busy to reply quick enough to my satisfaction, into one too many deep conversations about MY feelings, because it was always about me, and the self fulfilling prophecy would come true. They’d leave, and I’d be hardcore bumming.

To pick myself up I would shop. And shop. And shop some more. And when there was nothing more to shop for, I would shop for other people, do dinner out, grab the check, pay for after dinner drinks.

The best impulse buy was a Volkswagen Convertible. My husband was furious, until he drove it. Then he went and bought one for himself. So at least I was inspiring.

So here I am in this long room, at a long conference table, trying to describe my tale of woe, because in hindsight I had no clue what the hell was wrong with me. It just needed it to stop, and I really didn’t care how that happened just as long as it did.

The guy sat across from me, taking notes, nodding, “mmhmmm”-ing, and finally asking me, “How can we help?”

“I have no idea,” I tearfully replied.

“What’s your biggest concern,” he asked, clicking his pen as he watched me wipe snot from my teary covered nose.

Come to find out, pen clicking was a big deal to these people. When staff had nothing to say to you, they’d click their pens and wait for you to have some profound moment or cry. Either way, pen clicks bought time.

“I’m crazy. I’m a doormat. My life is nothing but, and has always been, chaos, and I don’t know how to say f*ck you.”

“We can help you with all of that.”

I perk up. “How soon?” I sniffle.

“Does tomorrow work for you?”

I nod yes. “How long will it take?” I ask, partially concerned about my job and mostly relieved that I probably didn’t have to go back for a good, long while.

“As long as it takes. We don’t give tools to survive. We show you how to live so that it goes beyond survival and into simply living your life. There’s no time limit on that.”

I nod yes again. We shake hands, and he says to be in the waiting room tomorrow morning, 9:00 AM sharp.

With pretty much no notice to my job, I unofficially quit to embark on the once in a lifetime opportunity to save myself from myself. My relationships and such were too damaged to be saved. As a matter of fact, once my husband knew I was in the program, he took a job assignment in India for a month, leaving me and my two dogs to take on the world one emotionally exhausting day at a time. But that was okay. He did his part. He was free to go.

So this is the story of my two years in a Day Hospital, mixed in with some side stories about the souls I encountered (names changed to protect the innocent, of course), and my epic experience with the 200 medications they put me on in order to keep me alive at times, but mostly from self-destructing. And then there’s life after the Day Hospital.

All of which in no particular order.

I believe on Youtube they’d call these “Storytimes.”

When it comes to meds I need to stress that I am not a doctor, and that I speak purely from my own experience, which may differ from the experience of others. Some people get picky and are all “that’s not how that drug works!” Well, maybe not for YOU, but for ME that’s how it went down, so take the valium you claim that doesn’t work for YOU and go simmer down.

This is my story of the Day Hospital and life beyond it. I hope you join me for the tale. This is my truth. This is how I stayed alive, and more so, keep on living.