haz3yyy

[haz3yyy]

hazey misconceptions

Where do you begin when your story is so hazey? When the details get blurred between the lines and emotions and logic mix?

It’s taking me a while to figure out in which order I want to tell my story. Does the order of the story even matter as long as it all makes sense?

I want to start off by saying I’m a very open person; almost to a fault. Sometimes, I spill my words without even processing them, without thinking about the actual meaning behind what I’m saying. I forget that words have depth and just because they’re only words to me, doesn’t mean those who read my words feel the same way. While I’m entitled to use whatever words I want, I shouldn’t share them for the world to see - at least with expecting no reaction.

Seven days changed my life. I’ve learned lessons, I’ve climbed hurdles, I’ve been kicked when I was down, and I’ve had helping hands help me stand back up. 

DAY ONE:  For once, I didn’t see it coming. I never imagined I would wake up to a cop banging on my bedroom door, questioning me about things I posted on social media. What began as a simple welfare check escalated into my personal rights being violated, and then eventually taken away. After a traumatic battle with an authority figure on a power trip, I was determined to not be a danger to myself (or anyone else), although the crisis worker did recommend outpatient therapy to help me manage my emotions and impulses more appropriately. But, due to the police report, I had no choice but to sign myself into an inpatient psychiatric hospital - yes, against the hospital’s advice and solely due to the report.  Little did I know, this was only the beginning of the “trapped” feeling I was starting to have. In my head, I’m thinking... “a police officer with little to no mental health education has the authority to commit me based off of a post on social media when a licensed social worker believes I am okay to leave.” so why do I have to go? 

DAY TWO: Day one and day two are blended together in a way. I didn’t get to the second hospital until nearly 3am, over 12 hours from when the cop did the welfare check. It was quiet, which helped ease my nerves a bit, but sharing a room in a psych hospital is one of the most stressful parts. I didn’t sleep long before I was being woken up for blood work and vitals, maybe 3 hours tops. I don’t really remember much of the morning, but I remember not being allowed to leave the ward until seeing a doctor to make sure I was “okay” to go to the cafeteria. That sucked. I don’t know how or when, but I ended up mingling with a few others and having people to pace the hallways with helped lower my anxiety. At some point, my room was switched and I had a nice roommate! Her and I got along well and that also helped.  I was eventually allowed down to the cafeteria, not that it made a difference in the quality of food, but it was nice leaving the ward. They also had me try a medication that caused my pressure to go up to 175/110,125bpm while I was trying to sleep, and I also had a slight fever. The fever broke once I drank a few bottles of water and got sick twice. Another short night of sleep with a minor panic attack thinking I was dying from taking a new medication.

DAY THREE: This was probably the hardest day/night of the week long sentence. I don’t remember anything major happening by day, but it was supposedly the day before my 72 hours (when I got to go home) and it went by SO slow. I watched football, chatted and paced with the friends I made, did puzzles, but eventually, the three things you’re allowed to do get old and you’re searching for new ways to release energy.  Finally, it was time for bed. I always stayed up as late as I could reading or chatting because sleeping was the hardest part for me. They took me off all of my medications, including birth control, and only offered melatonin to sleep; which of course I took but it didn’t help. We had to be awake by 7 anyway so my goal was always to try to sleep around midnight. You know, now that I’m here typing this, I fell asleep before midnight.. Damn it!  Anyway... Around 1am, a girl who (I think) suffers from schizophrenia woke up in an episode and due to lack of staff, they just allowed her to ride out this episode which caused another patient on the floor to be triggered. What could have been a simple (for lack of better words) situation with a reasonable solution turned into a full blown crisis in my unit. I don’t want to get into the details for a few reasons like HIPAA... but things that happened triggered my own PTSD and anxiety. The only medication I was offered at this point was melatonin and the anti-psychotic, Latuda, they gave me the night before. I rejected it the this night, thankfully, because between the crisis and the reaction I had the night before, I probably would’ve had a heart attack.

DAY FOUR: I woke up feeling like something was wrong. I kept blaming it on the incident the night before and my nerves being all shaken up from what happened. I don’t know why I tried to brush it off because my gut was right; something was wrong. I wasn’t going home.  My feelings bounced all over the place. I felt angry, I felt betrayed, I felt upset, I felt nervous, I was worried and sad.. I didn’t even know how to feel in that moment and it was almost like I went numb. Why was I not allowed to leave? When I spoke to the therapist and PA, I was advised not to sign a 72 hour notice, which gives me the right to sign myself out at the 72nd hour with or without seeing a doctor, because I would be leaving sooner than that and the notice would keep me there an extra day (Tuesday). Frantic, I was asking everybody why I couldn’t leave. I was getting so many different answers that I truly believed it was a test to see how mentally and emotionally stable I actually was. I believed they thought I would’ve totally flipped out and they would’ve been obligated to keep me there longer. I would get an answer, solve the problem, and then get a different answer as to why I wasn’t able to be released. First, I needed an outpatient appointment within 10 days. So I asked my mom to call around and find me an appointment. She did. Now, the problem wasn’t the appointment, it was the fact that the appointment wasn’t in the same county as the one I live in. Okay, strange, but whatever.. We made a new appointment in county, and now the issue was I didn’t see a doctor. I gave up at this point because it was clear there was no way I was leaving. The doctors were going home for the day and the therapists were long gone, so what else could I do but ride out another night? At this point, I was thankful I made a friend in my unit and was able to “hang out” with them until we had to go to sleep.

DAY FIVE: Christmas Eve. I don’t think I know the right words to describe the empty, sinking feeling waking up Christmas Eve in a psych hospital full of strangers. They do their best to make the day feel festive, but it’s just not there.. You can feel the sadness. Anyway, day five was the day I found out I’ve been in the wrong unit since I arrived. Apparently, the unit I was in was a higher risk unit but at the time of my transfer, was the only unit with an available bed. How am I supposed to know I’m not supposed to be in this unit? I didn’t go home because I was on the wrong floor. The doctor couldn’t see me.. because I was on the wrong floor. I wasn’t doing anything I was supposed to be doing because. I. was. on. the. wrong. floor. I was sad to leave the friend I made in my unit but was hopeful that moving to another unit was promising towards being able to go home. Again, my nerves kicked in and I was anxious about who my new roommate was going to be. Please excuse me if this sounds shallow at all, but your roommate really determines how high or low your anxiety will be because most of your time is spent in your room. Thankfully, another cool roommate. Things in this unit seemed a lot more relaxed and was clearly a lower security risk than the previous unit I was in. Is it in or on? Was I in the unit or on the unit? They were allowed to stay up later and had more interaction with groups and other similar activities. I finally saw the doctor and she asked me to take a suicide risk assessment before she would be comfortable letting me sign myself out. Of course I completed it immediately but due to the holiday and her being the only doctor, she didn’t get around to it and I wasn’t allowed to leave yet. I was still super anxious about when I was able to go home, so I decided to sign a 72 hour notice. To be honest, I still don’t understand how that works...

DAY SIX: Merry Christmas... I woke up feeling really sad and discouraged. All I could do was pray that today was the day I would get to go home. I couldn’t think of anything other than going home if I tried.  After breakfast, the doctor came in. I WAS NERVOUS. I was so anxious that she would want me to stay longer. She wouldn’t let me go home. What if it was all another test to see if it would break me? I teased the tech who calls patients into the doctor’s office to put me on the top of the list to talk to her... And she came back and said “she wants to talk to you.. you’re not even on the list.” I probably could’ve thrown up on the floor, but I went quickly, hoping and praying I would get the news I needed. I did. I was allowed to go home. I was allowed to make arrangements to get the hell out of there. It was truly a Christmas miracle.

I’m pretty stumped on how to conclude this story. 

One week isn’t a lot of time when your mind is scattered between various life factors and events, but when you have absolutely nothing to do but reflect on your thoughts and actions, it feels like a lifetime. Although this week was one of, if not the toughest week I’ve ever experienced, I’m thankful for the time I had to reflect on myself and work on understanding my thoughts better to help prevent actions similar to the ones that got me where I was.