Monday, July 31, 2006

The Sleepover

Have you ever been completely certain of something? Like on the movies, when the hero knows that he must sacrifice his own life to save others. He walks into the burning building to save his partner knowing that he will not return.

That resolve came over me twice 1998. The first was when I left my first husband. The decicison was hard, but valid, and I do not wish to hurt any family so I will leave it with the knowledge of just being necessary at the time.

The second was a few weeks later. My 2 daughters and I had just moved into our new place. I thought things were going well but I had been misdiagnosed by a psychiatrist. The wrong diagnoses cause what is called rapid cycling, where I would go up and down in mood several times in an hour. The final result of this is going down and staying down. Pretty far down.

I was downstairs with my oldest daughter who was 2 1/2 at the time. I was dressing her and suddenly realized that I could no longer go on. Every morning that I woke up, I viewed it as just another day until I died. I found no more joy in life and the voices whispering in my ear had become convincing. It was my last chance before the voices got their way.

I had planned my suicide before, and I had decided how and when to do it. At that time, I was still with my husband, and I knew that my daughters would be found quickly after. Now we were alone, and I could not rely on someone finding them in time.

As much as I hated it, I called my ex-husband and told him that I needed help. We went to the town doctor and then drove 2 hours into the city to see a psychiatrist there.

I met with him, and it became clear to me that he was just going to give me drugs and send me home. He thought I had support. On the outside, I can for short periods, appear alright. He started to write prescriptions and give instructions. He reached out to shake my hand.

"If you send me home I am going to kill myself."

I had never said the words before, but I needed to save myself for my daughters.

He paused and then picked up the phone.

That is when I started the sleep over. They told me it was 18 days but I don't really remember. My brain stopped working and I have lost a lot of memories before and during that time. I guess it is like when you damage any nerve,the purpose of that nerve needs to be retaught.

The psych ward is like a giant sleepover. We hung out in our pajamas all the time, we did crafts, and told secrets. The girls did each others hair, and the boys played sports. And the drugs flowed.

As I walked in the giant secure doors, I looked up and saw "In-patient psychiatric Ward". It was the lowest moment in my life. They checked me in, and then it was close to supper time. Your first meal they let you eat in your room, easing you into the full extent of where you are and who you have become. I sat on my bed, and ate with tears falling on my tray. I was in the observation room, the one with the windows on the door, so the nurses can check on the most at risk regularly.

That night I slept, thanks to the wonderful sedative dessert I received. About every 15 minutes my door opened and a flashlight shone on me, the nurses checking on my safety.

The terror of morning was overwhelming.

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Sick


I have been sick since for nearly as long as I can remember. Not the 'lets have a Telethon sick'. Not the kind of sick that emotes sympathy or has someone saying that maybe you should take a couple days off of work. I can't take chemotherapy or radiation to rid myself of it, but everyday it eats away at me just like cancer. My sickness is terminal and will kill me if I don't put it into remission. Right now the 1200 mg of lithium I take a day keeps the demons at bay and stops me from pressing hard enough on the knife that some day might hit something vital.

My sickness usually evokes the opposite of a physical illness. I become miserable, intolerable, and drive away my friends and family. Even my husband of 4 years, Paul, becomes tired of it. Without the visible gaping wound, the hairless head, the prosthetic leg, my sickness just becomes an irritant to those around me.

I don't blame them. When out of remission I also hate myself. I don't want to be around me either. I know I am ugly and viscous. I know I am mean, but I am unable to control it, anymore that a diabetic is able to control their blood sugar.

Luckily over time I have begun to see the precursors to falling into the pit. I can feel the sandpaper on my brain and begin the preemptive first aid to healing my mind.

I am tired. I am tired of fighting, and tired of hearing every whisper in my mind telling me I would be better off gone.

I am mostly tired of hurting my family. I am tired of my poor little girls thinking that the flaw is in them.

What terrifies me is I know this disease is heriditary.

What if they turn out like me?

I will take every whisper, every bad day, every thought of suicide, as long as it saves them.