I visited the doctor yesterday morning. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “I am not going to kill myself. But I gotta admit, I do feel like I probably should, because it would be best for everyone.”
Doc: “Can you trust yourself?”
Me: “I… I don’t know.”
And just like that, it happened. The doctor decided I was at risk of hurting myself, and I was instantly lead over to another part of the hospital. They gave me a room with bars covering the window, and went through my things to remove anything I potentially could hurt myself with. So… yes. This actually is happening.
I really didn’t see it coming. Going into town yesterday I thought I was just heading for a regular doctor’s appointment, to follow up on how the dreadful meds have affected me. But instead I end up… here. Ouch.
I realize that I probably shouldn’t write this, tell you all so openly. Because you know, there is a massive stigma around mental illness, and just me being here (or having been here) probably is enough for a lot of people to judge me as crazy. I’m not, though. Just depressed. And I feel like I do need to speak, or rather write, of what it’s really like.
Hopefully it’ll just be for a few days, while they adjust the meds (and take away the one that made me so much worse). I have been here for less than 24 hours now, and already it is crazy how much I long to go home.
And one last thing. My husband is the best. THE best. He was as shocked as I was of course, when I called him to say I was here. Even so, he managed to make me smile. And when he came to visit he even had me laughing for a moment. Laughing at the absurdity of the situation.
How strange life is. Every day a new experience.
I’ll be back.