The System is Fucked

The nicest way to describe the psychiatric system is fucked up. I call my doctor and say "I think my meds aren't working anymore. I'm up and down. My mood swings are insane and I can't control myself. My anxiety is so bad that I can't order food in a restaurant or decide what clothes to wear in the morning." It took me 2 hours that morning to decide to put a t-shirt and jeans on to come to the doctor's office. She puts in a referral to the local hospital to get me in to see a psychiatrist. I go on vacation for a week hoping that getting away will solve some of my anxiety. Instead the anxiety gets worse and I start flying through life. I'm binge drinking at night, stopped taking my meds because I felt really good (while I was drunk). I was social and laughing and laughing ... so hard I actually fell over. I love myself drunk more than I love myself sober. Everything that I hate about myself seems to disappear. All my social anxiety seems to disintegrate when I'm drinking. I'm the life the of the party. I announce to the bartender that let's get a round of tequila for everyone! One for the bar tender too. We lick the salt, drink the shot and bite the lemon. I then drink a beer as a chaser in two gulps. I have the perfect buzz going. I am affable. I am friendly. I make jokes. I no longer think everyone is staring at me. We dance like fools, we laugh, I carry on like I'm 23 year's old.

But with these highs come the lows.

Low enough that waking up is hard and I can barely wake up. Not because I'm hung over, but because a heavy sadness hangs over my head. I'm moving in slow motion. I cry at the drop of a hat. I'm paranoid. I return from vacation expecting to feel relieved, but I'm not. I'm more anxious than when I left. There has been no call from my doctor or the psych department of the hospital. I let another week pass by with major mood swings. Three weeks have now gone by and still nothing. I call my doctor and she says it will take up to 2 months to get an appointment. I don't have weeks. My scale is tipping. The craziness is coming. It's moved from my chest to my limbs. My skin is crawling. There's a body that wants to come out. I feel possessed. I asked for help and all they can offer me is a 2 month turn around. Instead of getting treatment, I self medicate. More booze and cutting.

I end up in the ER. He finds me cutting on the bathroom floor (as I mentioned earlier). Now I am in the ER. I am scouring the the halls for what the hospital calls "sharps." I need to cut so badly. It's all I can think about. As I'm searching the halls, I remember I have a metal butter knife. I go back to my bed in the ER and I try that, it barely makes a mark. yes folks, the ER left me with a knife. Although it doesn't do anything - what if it did. I rub it against my wrists back and forth back and forth. It finally breaks through some skin, but not enough. I try a fork - nothing. I try ripping a prong off of my hospital bracelette, still nothing. Finally the bright idea hits me to rip off the metal part of the pen off. It was sharp enough to make a small incision, but still not sharp enough to make me bleed.

I start pacing the halls again - looking through nurses hospital carts. Trying not to be suspicious. If I had the balls, I would have stolen something. But, I couldn't. I ask the nurse for my meds and decide to go to sleep.

I spend 3 days in the ER, where no one really knows what's going on. They treat me like a normal person. I'm able bodied and I can talk, but I can guarantee I'm more fucked up than anyone on that ER ward. It took imovain, seroquel, and some other unknown drug (maybe clonazepam or lorazepam) to put me to sleep.

The next morning I wake up and they can move me into the psych ward. I walk down the white corridor that is lit with neon lights. My parents and partner are there. I feel like I'm marching to meet my maker - they buzz me in. The Northern European nurse, Lucy, whom I remember from last time I was here, brings me to my room. She makes me dump all of my items onto the bed and she searches my bags for those infamous sharps. She confiscates my pills, my blowdryer, my razor, hair spray, and shave gel. I get the pills and the razors - the others I still don't quite understand. She leaves my Ipod, but says she'll have to take the headphones at night. I'm numb. I should be listening, but I'm not. I look around at the blush pink privacy curtains, the seafoam green comforter and wondering - can I back out now? By the time I've come back to consciousness I'm hugging my parents and my partner goodbye. My partner has tears streaming down his cheeks, but I am unmoved. I'm blank faced and cannot let him see my distress. But, when he leaves, I fall apart. I curl up on the bed and cry. All the composure and stoicism cannot help me now. He is gone and I fall apart...