So I had my second workshop this week with a video conference last night. It went well–turns out that I’m being tripped up by the same things as usual–too much dialogue and not enough description. So I am also conferencing with my professor this morning and seeing what can be done and interacting more with someone about it. So we will see how it goes. I don’t know as I will rewrite it for my final project–I still have another exercise to do for class that may spark my interest. We will see.
We go to Mobile this afternoon to get ready for another dance competition,. This is the last travel one until this summer, I believe. So it will be nice to have my weekends back again.
I prayed last night that I would be able to get up and do this morning–have the energy to do what all needed to be done, etc. So far I have gone and changed the oil in my car and will soon go and finish packing for the trip and finish up laundry. So today has been much better than yesterday, which is also doing wonders for my self-esteem. Makes me feel like a productive member of society again instead of a slug.
Hope everyone has a good weekend and a blessed Holy Week next week. Thanks for continued prayers as I start Psychamore next week.
I have loaded the washer with laundry. That defines success the way I feel today.
I am just so dead. I went to church last night and realized I’ve been living like only today matters–that there won’t be an eternity to live after I die. That’s why I want escape–suicide, oblivion, sleep, whatever.
Maybe it’s because I can only manage if I only think about today. Tomorrow and next year and eternity are too over whelming to handle at this point. It’s all I can do to get through today.
Here’s to me getting through today. That will be success enough.
So I went for my followup to Dr. Bishop. He decided to add in Lexapro like the doctor at the hospital did and cut my Pristiq to avoid Serotonin syndrome. So we will see what happens. He said I did all the right things in going in and all. He said that he was glad for my going to Psychamore’s program and hoped I would do well there. He wants to see me back in a month so we set that up.
I still feel depressed. Just not suicidal. i want to crawl into bed and just stay. But I can’t do that–too much to do, all of it good for me and my family. I am just tired and sleepy and want to sleep some more.
Having lots of trouble staying on task with everything to do with class. I don’t know how I’m going to handle three more years of this. Everyone will be sick of me by the time I finish :). And maybe I’ll be sick of writing by then too. I hope not but I’m afraid of that
I need to eat lunch and fix dinner. WIsh me well on continuing to recover.
After I got out of the hospital last week, I had a couple of days to do laundry and get ready to go to Nashville with my oldest, my youngest, and Bob. We stayed at the Opry Hotel and went to the Grand Ole Opry on Friday and Saturday nights. We kind of planned this trip to please our oldest since it will likely be her last Spring Break trip with us since hopefully she will be gainfully employed next year. We had a good time and ate really good food at the hotel’s several restaurants. It was relaxing and a great change of pace to get out of town and delay my return to full household duty this week.
Yesterday I went to a partial hospitalization program to be evaluated. THey called later and said they would accept me and I would start this coming Monday. I’ve been through it before so I kind of know what to expect. We will have groups most of the day with consultations with the doctor over it once a week and individual therapy once a week. They think I’ll be in it full-time for five to seven weeks then three days a week for a while. I think I may be in it for the rest of the semester with that kind of timeline. I just hope I can stay up with the demands of school, too, doing this.
Thanks for supporting the blog like you all do and keeping up with me even when I was out. Thanks for your continued prayers and thoughts as I try this program.
After I packed my clothes, I called Bob’s mom to ask her to come sit with Rachel until Bob got back. My father-in-law answered and said she wasn’t home and didn’t have her cell phone with her. I didn’t tell him what was going on, just said we would call back later.
I packed my contacts and makeup, knowing to leave my meds and other valuables at home. By then Bob was walking in to a hug from our youngest and asking me how I was doing. I stayed strong and didn’t cry in front of my daughter. We called Dr. Bishop’s office since it was still office hours for him, but the staff there told me to call the hospital directly. I called the behavioral health unit and was told to go to the ER since they had closed assessments for the day. Everywhere I turned it seemed I was being palmed off on someone else.
We decided to just drop our daughter off at Bob’s parents’ house, and Bob called to tell his father we were on the way. His father said that would be fine and wished me well at going into the hospital if that was what I needed to do.
We went to St. Dominic’s with very little talk, mostly about logistics and who needed to be notified that I might be going inpatient again. Again we landed in the ER, and again I was taken back to a windowless room with a wooden bed and a rubber mattress and asked to change into disposable scrubs. And again, I was evaluated by a doctor and a social worker and admitted to the intermediate ward and taken across the street in a bus to behavioral health.
The next morning I called my psychiatrist, Dr. Bishop, and asked his office staff if I could be seen that day, that I was having an emergency. I already had two appointments that day—one a check up for my daughter and another a check on my cholesterol. They said the couldn’t see me at all–they were too busy that day. They offered me a 2 p.m. appointment the next day, and I said yes, thinking I could make it that far. I was feeling calmer and not so out of control.
But the further it got in the day after my appointments, the worse I felt. Every time I went into the kitchen for anything, there was that big knife again, with the same thoughts of how much it would hurt to cut myself but how good it would be to be done with life.
I don’t really know what made the thoughts jump on me like that. Yes, I had gotten rejections on my writing but that wasn’t anything new. Yes, I had some thoughts about how I was still upset at my job not working out at the first of the spring semester and feeling like dead weight in the household even though I handled cooking, laundry, scheduling, and some cleaning. But I didn’t want to spend my days doing just that. I wanted to work. I kept feeling more and more hopeless and helpless but held on until my youngest came home from school.
I thought that talking with her about her day would get my mind off of mine. But it didn’t. I finally called Bob at 4:20 p.m. and got him on the phone. I was terrified to start cooking dinner and handling that knife. I told him, “I need you to come on home.”
“Are you okay?” he said.
“No, I’m not. I can’t wait any longer on going to the hospital,” I said.
He said, “Okay. Call Mom so she can come get Rachel and I’ll be home just as soon as I can.”
I went back to the master bedroom closet and started packing. I pulled open drawers in my closet unit and pulled clothes off of hangers to stuff into my large duffel bag. I had the presence of mind to get three pajama sets and three casual pants sets and three sets of underwear. I thought I probably wouldn’t stay longer than that. I would get my medication adjusted or otherwise managed and be out.
“Here we go again.”
That was the major thought in my mind in March 2018 when I found myself being driven to the hospital in Jackson where I had always ridden out my suicidal urges. This time was more serious—I kept imagining picking up the big knife laying on the kitchen counter and chopping at my left wrist with it. Just go ahead and cut it and bleed out. Get it over with; be done with life. I don’t know if such imaginings are what’s called command hallucinations, but something serious was definitely going on.
It had started Monday. I had experienced such thoughts throughout my day through the afternoon. I told Bob, “I need to talk to you,” as soon as he came through the door with our youngest daughter in tow from dance practice.
He sent her upstairs to change, and I tried hard not to cry as I told him where my thoughts had been going throughout the day. We tried my doctor’s office to see if they had an emergency number for him, but there was none. We ate dinner, and Bob kept asking me how I was feeling, if I still wanted to go to the hospital. By now we had made my daughter aware of the situation, and being thirteen and us having recently had a talk about my troubles, she knew the situation was serious.
As we went through the nighttime routine, I got calmer and calmer. After dinner, we decided to watch old Bugs Bunny cartoons on DVD to get my mind off the seriousness of the situation. I sat and watched the classics on the DVD—where Marvin the Martian was introduced, the Barber of Seville sketch, one of the “Duck season! Rabbit season!” sequences, and ended with the “Kill the Wabbit” masterpiece featuring Wagnerian opera.
By then I thought I would be okay through the night. I took a hot bath and went to bed.