The biggest road block to going “home” was not having one to go to. I was going “home” to mom’s condo. My life was still imploded. My life IS still imploded. Not one thing that has happened have I asked for, or wanted. My husband made all the decisions for me and wanted them implemented. He fancies himself an excellent communicator. The biggest decision that was happening in my life, he forgot to consult me on. I bet I know who he did consult though. her. the other woman. she who does not deserve capital letters because if my life could go on without ever acknowledging her, i would, but I can’t because it has turned into a regular clown and pony show because of her. And him, but without her, I was living a plain, boring life with three teenagers and my husband. I don’t think he knew he was unhappy. Until her. Just wait until you hear how it happened. Then you will hate her even more.
Anyway, going “home”. While in the psych ward, I had acquired some 6 books that I read while behind closed doors. I haven’t read a book since. My family, my blood family, was kind enough to bring some things while I was there since we couldn’t have visitors. My mind can’t concentrate on anything long enough to comprehend storylines. I am not sure it could then, but it passed the time. I could remember the book for a day anyway. My EKGs had been debatably stable on the new antidepressant for 4 days. I had follow ups scheduled with primary care and cardiology. I had participated in group therapy and was able to mostly fill out the discharge book with how I would cope if I felt the way I had been feeling prior to admission. I was signed up to participate in a group therapy via zoom that met twice a week and had an appointment with my therapist lined up for after discharge the following week.
Something that had been plaguing me was that I knew my husband had stopped wearing his wedding ring already. He stopped because I had told all of our children. Specifically his. That I dared ruin his relationship with them by doing that was way out of line. What I tried to tell him then, and I told him when I lay in the ER was I needed help. Our family unit was very close, so I thought if I told the kids, (who are adults, 18,19 and 20, young, but still adults) that it was better. I gave them as unbiased a story as I could, but I was obviously very upset by it. I told them that I was as floored as they were, and that I had no idea it had been going on. I told them what little I knew about it, what I had found out from the phone records, and what I knew about her, but that was all I knew. I told them all I wanted was everything to work out, and that I loved him and I would forgive him at any point, because my family was above all else, most important. I remember laying in the ER talking to my husband and creaking out of my mouth, “I told you I needed help. I wasn’t being malicious” and he said to me “I know honey. I know that now.” My husband has no friends. By choice. He is an odd man, but he is my odd man, I love him with everything in me. That is why I chose to tell our children. They know he is odd. They didn’t understand why he did what he did either.
I knew while I lay in the psych ward he didn’t miss a beat carrying on with her. One night while I was in there, it rained. My window leaked. There was a puddle on the floor in my room. I thought about not telling anyone. I thought about throwing myself up against that window to see if I could push it out and if I would make it out dead on the other side. I ran my hands all along that window and realized it was just sealed poorly. So, like a responsible crazy person, I got the nurse. They called maintenance. I didn’t want to be blamed for that window. It was late, around midnight. They never fixed that window the whole time I was in the there. I am sure they were worried about mutiny if something went awry and there would be an issue like the one I daydreamed about. I did find it interesting that when maintenance came they brought up their tools with them and no protection. I wondered if they asked if people were sleeping or awake, or if they assumed. I was the only one awake on the unit. If they knew that i was the only one awake I’m sure they figured they could take me.
Something that baffled me in there was the 15 minute checks. I understood we needed to be accounted for. My room was outside of the common area, where everyone ate and the television was. You weren’t allowed to have your door shut. However, I do feel, I am a grown adult. A depressed grown adult, but a grown adult. So, everyday, I would shower and shut my door. Everyday, they would open it. We didn’t have bath towels either. I suppose, in my ever shrinking state, I could wrap the hand towel around my body, but barely. Every day I got out of the shower, my door was open, and I would shut it. They would open it again. I never complained, but it was a silent battle I had with them. No one needed to see me naked. My bed was right there. I needed to get dressed. I needed to dry off. The bathroom had no shelves you could put your clothes one while you showered and water got everywhere in there. The only logical place for you to get dressed was in your room, not the bathroom. Despite my depression, I still found it necessary to have decency. I don’t walk around with my skin hanging out. My body is covered at all times. I found it bothersome that they opened the door while I showered. An invasion of what tiny amount of privacy I had. We also had room checks twice a day where they went through our stuff to make sure we didn’t have contraband. I never told you the most exciting part up there! WE GOT REAL SILVERWARE EVERY MEAL! We had to bring it to the nurse’s station personally after every meal. One meal, I was not given a knife. I freaked out. I all but flipped my room looking for the knife I was not given. I dragged my feet down the hall with my fork and spoon to turn them in. With downcast eyes I told whoever was sitting at the desk I wasn’t given a knife for the count, I wasn’t hoarding it for late night activities. They laughed at me and told me I wasn’t the kind of patient they worried about. I looked at them and felt a huge sigh of relief leave my body. They laughed even more at my expense I had been so worried about it.
Back to going “home”. Being sprung free felt funny. I had to have a chaperone to the door. My mother was to meet me at a specific entrance. I got to pick which door to walk out, but I didn’t know which one to pick. I could see her car. I had to get a script first, so do I pick the door closer to the pharmacy? Further away? Are they judging me still if I’m not on the psych ward anymore? Was there a right or wrong answer? Do I pick the door closer or further away from her car? Whichever door I went out, I had to be walked to the car. Unlike most patients, I walked out. A lot were taken by wheelchair. Like we talked about before, I had a lack of sedating medications in me. I was a spry as I could be. A little drop foot that comes on when I’m tired, but really no worse for the wear.
Not shockingly, my mother had gotten lost trying to find her way to the hospital. I had to give her directions the whole back, but she wouldn’t let me drive. I used my cell phone some to let a few friends who knew I’d been in that I was out. We hadn’t been allowed to use them in there. I didn’t say a lot in the car. I found I didn’t have so much to say. It felt nice to sit in a car.
When we got back to my mom’s, I went up to “my room”. I lay on the bed and tried to decide which side I would sleep on; should I sleep on my side or his side? I decided his side. I found out that night, being in the same development, I waited for him. Subconsciously. Every time the garage door opened for the neighbors, I sat straight up and thought “my husband is home”. Of course he wasn’t. This wasn’t my home and he wasn’t coming to me. And he wasn’t coming for me. That would send me into a tailspin of sobs and tears. Then I would go sit in the rocking chair by the window and watch the darkness and hope the next set of car lights would be him coming toward me. But it never was.
Never had a white picket fence 