Work in progress

The slow spiral

I always thought if my mental health got bad, I would catch it, and do something about it before it got bad. I thought I had it under control, that I dealt with it the proper way and didn't have many issues with it. It wasn't until my friends, who seemed to have caught on to my obvious downfall much faster than I did, rightfully called me out. I remember the lonely feeling after he sent me the angry texts, basically saying I need to get help for myself instead of just not doing anything. I laid in bed, had one of my worst panic attacks, and felt an urge to die, stronger than ever before. I was no use alive, I made everyone hurt. I only did harm. But some small part of me decided I wanted, no, needed, to get help. I went into my mothers room, knowing she was sleeping but feeling as if I had the courage and motivation to say I needed help now, and might not later. However, when I crouched next to the bed she slept on, and quietly whispered mom, it felt as if a tsunami of grief, sadness, and anxiety hit me. I burst into tears, telling her how I wanted to die and even showing her the cuts running all over my skin, something I would learn was my way of punishing myself for my actions. My mother, still waking up, instantly held me, and suggested she take me in to the hospital that night, fearing for me. I agreed, realizing that I probably needed to be supervised for the night. I walked into my bedroom, grabbing an overnight bag and tossing it on my bed. I stared at it, having no idea what to even pack. What would they let me keep? What would they want me to bring? My mom assured me they'd have toiletries, I should just get some clothes. I threw a pair of sweatpants and a shirt into the bag, along with some underwear. I followed her upstairs, where my aunt, who was already updated on the situation, was waiting. I hugged her as another wave of crying happened, and she said she'll see me when I get out. 

The drive to the hospital was about 20 minutes, but sitting in the car felt like hours. My mom asked me question after question, also trying to figure out how she didn't notice her daughter going from, smiling, happy before she fell asleep, to crying, wanting to die in the middle of the night. To be honest, I think I was so used to tuning myself out, it wasn't until it was deafening that I realized it was a disaster. I couldn't put up with it any longer, I needed to get myself on the right track, and at least try to make it up to everyone. We pulled into the hospital, and approached the woman at the desk. I gave her my name and age and everything, until I froze when she asked me why I was in. What do you even say there? "I lost my mind, and now I wanna fucking kill myself"? "I realized I've been a ticking time bomb all my life, and I wanna be a martyr rather than cause any more pain to the people I care about?" My mom, quickly noticing my confusion and loss of words, jumped in, looking at the nurse and quietly saying "She needs crisis." calmly, rubbing my back reassuringly. Crisis. The word fit so perfectly. I was in an ER at nearly midnight, my cheeks wet from crying, and wearing Cartoon Network sweatpants. I didn't even have a bra on. My mother, always wanting to fill people in, rang my father as we sat in the waiting room. I don't know why, but I was expecting more security measures. Maybe since I self admitted, they weren't too worried, but you'd think someone threatening to kill themselves would take a little priority. However, I'm not complaining. I honestly probably would've freaked out if they tried to handcuff me to a hospital bed or something. My father, who was currently racing to the hospital so he could at least see me before they took me back, spoke to my mother for a few seconds, then she handed the phone to me. I said hello, and hearing my dad's voice on the other line brought another wave of tears to my eyes. 

Growing up, my parents were two very different forms of authority. My mother, who suffered from bipolar depression was very emotional, going from pissed off to sad within minutes. Seeing mom emotional was just another tuesday. it's not to say that I dismissed or ignored her, it was just more common to see mom emotionally distraught than it was to see my dad. So up until now, my mother's crying was the only tears for me I heard or saw, so maybe I was still not fully realizing how badly I fucked up. But hearing my dad's scratchy, obviously crying voice on the phone was a shock. We talked on the phone, he said he was here for me, and I cried like I was a little girl again, running to her father for comfort. I felt even worse when at the moment that my dad announced on the phone that he was pulling into the hospital that another nurse had popped into the waiting room, saying my name out loud. "Stephanie?" I told him they were pulling me back, and I heard his voice crack, as the worry got even worse. He promised to see me when I got out, and we both exchanged "I love you"s before I hung up and proceeded to follow the nurse. They did a general assesment, and sadly the evaluator was not in that night, so either way I was getting a nice little sleepover, nightgown and grippy socks included with a free breakfast. Once I was settled, given a nice little hospital bed in a hallway since the rooms were all full, They asked me to pee, which luckily I was able to do relatively quickly. They needed to make sure that I wasn't possibly high on heroin, or crack, or anything that might cause this sudden suicidal urge. I went in, and once I started peeing I quickly caught as much as I could in the cup, quickly sealing it and washing my hands. As I dried them, I heard the nurse knock on the door "Hey, Stephanie, your dad's here." I felt one of the many waves of emotions flood into my brain, and I looked at my reflection quickly. my face looked pale and sickly, my eyes still puffy from crying, and I knew it wouldn't go away. I would've tried to make myself look better, healthier, happier, but it was too late. My suitcase broke open. Now it was time to clean up the mess instead of tucking it away. I adjusted my hospital gown, making sure everything was secure, before I finally opened the door. Nurse Ann was standing outside, and I handed her my pee cup which was tucked into a plastic biohazard bag. She pointed me in the direction of the bed I was already familiarized with, where my dad stood. His back was to me, and I approached slowly, already feeling the tears roll down my cheeks as I prepared for his reaction. "Dad" I quietly whispered, and he spun around, and his face brought about even more guilt. He might have been trying to hide it, trying to be strong for me and maybe even himself, but I could see the sadness, worry, and even guilt that laid beneath his face. Instantly his burly arms wrapped around me, and this hug felt so familiar, yet so different. His hugs always usually felt tight and secure, but this one felt like I was locked into him, like he was afraid putting me down might mean I'm gone forever. If I was being fully honest, my dad's hug is what made me not want to die. Yes I still had the urge to jump into a river and either let the current bash my skull against a rock, the cold water to give me hypothermia, or just the water itself to fill my lungs and drown myself, but I felt what I didn't a few hours before. I felt something to fight for. My parents, my brother and sister, my nephews, so many things that I didn't feel I was finished with. But I already booked my stay with the hospital, and I knew they wouldn't let me go at least until I had a psych consult, so I decided to sleep the best I could and go from there.

In the morning, after many different events throughout the night (Some woke me up, some my father told me about in the morning) the psych consult happened. I explained what happened, and after having me ensure them multiple times, and asking my father if he agreed, they decided to dismiss me, and told me that if I felt worse to definitely come back. They gave me a list of phone numbers to call, but since it was a Saturday I would unfortunately have to wait until Monday to schedule any counseling.  But this was the first step. I had a plan. I was done running razor blades across my legs as punishment. Done feeling helpless. Done treating my friends like garbage. But first I had to get help. Which meant going into work and facing the consequences of my actions. 

I realize that I haven't really gone into detail of what happened, but I don't want to. I hurt my friends emotionally, and they have every right to be upset with me, I deserve it. But until then I'm gonna just keep my head down at work.