I’ve been home for a few weeks now, and finally feel ready to talk about my ordeal about a month ago.
To recap, I have Bipolar Disorder II, with severe anxiety. I’ve tried just about every cocktail there is, and have never found a happy medium between the highs and lows.
To get the full picture, lets go back six weeks. I went manic. I didn’t sleep for three days because the paranoia had kicked in and I was convinced that if I went to sleep, my baby would die. Irrational? Yes. Does that make any difference when you’re in a psychotic episode? No.
I’d been talking to Local Bestie, who has a Psychology degree, and she’d been urging me to go inpatient, but who was she kidding? I have five kids and a workaholic husband. There’s no time for that.
So I saw my psychiatrist, and they wanted to hospitalize me but I refused. So they maxed out all of my medications to bring me back down.
Only, it brought me too far down. Two weeks after my mania, I was so low, I found myself on the phone with The Suicide Prevention Hotline.
So I drove myself over to the local mental health hospital. My idea, because I was having an episode and was totally irrational, was that they’d tweak my meds, toss me in an outpatient program, and on my merry way I’d go.
What happened was, they got a judge to court order me into in patient treatment. Length of time: unknown.
I went in with yoga pants, a long sleeved t shirt, my phone, and my wallet. The phone and wallet were immediately taken from me and given to The Husband who, to my dismay, was NOT fighting the court order. He was on board, which was my wakeup call that “Okay, yeah, this is really bad.”
I was strip searched, to make sure I didn’t have any weapons. The wires were cut out of my bra so that I couldn’t use them as a weapon. My shoes were taken from me. I was assigned a room (with a roommate) and given one tiny bottle of shampoo.
I spent seven days in there. Going to group therapy. Going to yoga. Playing dominoes and Gin Rummy in the day room. Watching one girl apparently talk to Jesus, one repeatedly threatening to kill the staff, and one crying and screaming every ten minutes because we couldn’t have a smoke break except for every two hours.
I talked to the therapist. I saw the Psychiatrist every morning. I saw the medical doctor every evening. I didn’t cry. I ate when I was supposed to. I did everything right.
Every door was locked. The windows were barred. I wore a bracelet marking me as being on suicide watch.
The Husband visited twice, the two times he was allowed to. He brought me good shampoo and conditioner, and books, and they allowed me to have that. He brought me a wide toothed comb, and after much debate, I was allowed to have that. He snuck letters from the kids into the books that he brought. He kept me stocked with cigarettes.
I was allowed three pair of clothes, which were closely examined before being given to me. No pockets. No strings. No wires. No tank tops. No camisoles. Nothing low cut. No shorts. I basically lived in yoga pants and oversized t shirts, which is basically my at home uniform anyway.
Must wear socks at all time.
They changed my meds, and they actually worked. I’ve been so “normal” since I got out, as far as the meds are concerned.
Am I 100%? No, even though it’s been three or four weeks now. Not at all 100%, but going in patient was the best thing that ever happened to me. At first I was pissed, I was scared, I hated everybody. But after the meds stabilized it turned in to healing, and a time away, and a chance to get my shit together.
I’ve been a better mother since I got home. My kids have remarked that I don’t “flip out” anymore. My anxiety is gone. GONE. I haven’t gone high or low.
I quit everything. I am no longer a member of anything. Cutting out the stressors has been pivotal for me.
And I didn’t even get a bill, since lovely Cigna (at least the plan we have) covered it at 100%. They’ve also been blowing up my phone to offer me other services to help in my recovery.
So if you have to go inpatient, I know that it is scary. I know that you might be angry. But I also know that if you are at that point, this is your only option to stay alive. If it hadn’t happened to me, I might not be here to write this.
Confessions of a Minivan Mom of 4 