10 days in a psych ward. When I finally left there, I’m not sure I felt any better than when I went in. At some point, I think it became apparent to everyone involved in my care that time was maybe going to help. My life had shattered into a million little pieces that couldn’t be put back together again. Nothing seemed to fit together. It still doesn’t. It feels like a piece of me died.
My first morning there, when I went into my collaborative meeting, I told them I appreciated everything they were going to do for me, but they should prepare themselves for how I was going to act. I was going to make inappropriate jokes, such as how I felt Patsy Cline “Crazy” should be playing overhead softly at all times. I smiled wryly under my mask before I burst into tears when I told them that one. While I have a big heart, I often am sarcastic to hide what I am feeling. I guess the sarcasm couldn’t help my sadness.
We had to set daily goals. I tried to set goals for my body help me out of the psych unit. For my QT to be normalized. To eat a meal. At that point, I had lost about 30 pounds in 3 months. I wasn’t big to begin with, but I weighed a lot for being a petite person, just shy of 150 pounds at 5’5″ and wearing a size 4. My clothes were swimming on me. I had little or no appetite, and when I did want to eat, it was because I was with my husband and life felt “normal”. In the hospital, it felt anything but normal. I ordered copious amounts of food with every meal. I picked and nibbled at things. I ate midnight snacks before “bed” every night which consisted of chicken salad sandwiches and vegetables with dressing. I ordered two entrees with every meal tray that came. I remember one day I was so proud of myself, I ate all of my grilled cheese sandwich at lunchtime. My stomach hurt for hours afterward. I couldn’t find things I liked to drink, as I drink generally seltzer. I idly told one of my nurses about this, and the next morning there was seltzer on my tray. I was elated. I hoarded food in my room, on the big plastic Tupperware container. I weighed myself every morning, like I had at home, and watched my weight go down despite my efforts at eating. I could feel the stress eating at my body alive. I had a nurse tell me I shouldn’t weigh myself. I asked in team meeting, they told I could weigh myself, as it was something I did at home, and it seemed to be an innocent enough behavior.
While on the psych ward, it was commonplace for me to be mistaken for staff when staff members were looking for me. I got up every morning early, (generally before the sun broke) dressed in a version of business casual with jeans. I wore non ripped clothing, practical flats, and never sneakers. I had limited clothing with me from my house, as my husband had sent out the door with one bag of clothes that were not particularly seasonal, and an odd array of pants that mostly didn’t fit me. I was groomed nicely, as nicely as one can be in a psych ward. I used my own shampoo and conditioner, wore deodorant and perfume even. (Lightly scented) I made eye contact and said niceties when people walked by me. They would be looking for me and I would say, “That’s me!” then I would hold up my wrist banded arm to show it was in fact me. They looked alarmed more than once. Does crazy have a look? I was despondent more than anything. Everything felt very matter of a fact. Methodical almost. Except I didn’t know the facts. The facts had all gone to the wayside with my marriage. We had paperwork we had to fill out ourselves for discharge plan. I couldn’t fill it out because I didn’t know where I would be going. Except I guessed I did know where I would be going. Not home. I would never be able to go home again. It was taken from me. The one place I had been, where I felt comfort and love I didn’t have anymore.
I moved listlessly through everyday there. I went through the routines. I answered the questions. I went to the groups. I cried through some of them. I participated sometimes, and would even get them off topic, even if I didn’t mean to. I had a full on break down during one where we were supposed to be meditating. We were so close to the end, and I been crying very quietly to myself the whole time. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. I had to get out of the room. I had to be alone. We weren’t allowed to be alone, but the group leader let me go back alone, and buzzed me back into the unit. She talked to me afterward. I couldn’t find a safe place in my brain. The safe place I kept going to was my husband. I didn’t want to go there. I wanted to be able to find somewhere else to go, but it was the only place I could find where I felt safe, even with all the betrayal. My own mind couldn’t even figure that out. I still have that problem. My safety net isn’t safe anymore. There is a big hole in it where he let me fall through. I can’t climb back through.
Most people there I surmised were there because of drugs, alcohol or bipolar disorder. Most did not work. There were two times I was afraid. There were two people there with paranoia of sorts. One paced the hall endlessly. Their eyes were empty and he would not wear a mask. After a few days there, he became conversant to a degree and he became not so scary. Another person, ended up in restraints after they escaped and they screamed like nothing I have ever heard before. The following night, I was sitting in a chair in a common area, all alone, with my legs curled up to my chest. A nurse came down the hall saying my name, popping her head in my room. I opened my mouth to answer her, but she said my name again, this time it coming out in a shriek. A third time. I answered her. She whipped around to the sound of my voice, admonishing me “Where did you come from?” I showed her where I had been sitting. She told me I had not been. I realized that she couldn’t see me on the cameras with my legs curled up. She laughed nervously and told me she was worried I had also gotten out of the unit. I rolled my eyes and told her if I wanted to get out, I would tell them I was leaving and sign the AMA papers to leave, not run away.
They finally did start start me on a new antidepressant, with my QT normalized and got me ready for discharge. I was discharging to my mother’s condo, which is located right around the corner from my house, in the same development. This had been strategically bought as my mother was aging, and that way we could look in on her, if she were to need it at any point, but she was 100% independent. I had talked to my husband while I had been in the unit a few times. He had hung up on me once because he was picking up a pizza, and another time told me it was over. Still, I woke up at night calling his name. I slept with my arms folded across my chest so I would stop reaching for his hand in my sleep, because that was the most upsetting thing to me, to wake up and find his wasn’t there when I woke up. If I was holding my own hand, at least I wasn’t patting the mattress looking for something I wasn’t ever going to find.
The crazy feelings inside me weren’t anywhere near being gone, and I was going to get to go back to somewhere that wasn’t my home. I didn’t know how to cope. I knew being inside there I had gotten everything I could get and I wasn’t going to get any better. I had stayed there longer than anyone else on my side of the unit. I needed something that I am still looking for. It feels like him, but I think it is more than him. It is my sanity. I can smile. I can act “normal”. I can follow conversations and act appropriate, but I can’t mend this broken heart of mine and move on. Some days it feels like it might be ok, but it all comes back to me ten fold. I was not good enough for someone who promised me the world and then took it all away. How am I ever supposed to be good for myself and to trust myself? I still haven’t figured that out. If I am not good enough for them, what am I good for? Who am I good for? You know why he chose then to kick me out? To end it then? So that everything would be situated for his child to come for winter break from college. Mine was getting to come to ‘home’ to an unravelled, shell of a mother. Who had no home. But he had himself set up so that everything would be fine for him. Like I said, he told me I was strong and he was weak. But he broke me.
Never had a white picket fence 