I wasn't trying to kill myself

As the title of this post states, I wasn't trying to kill myself.  I just wanted the incessant thoughts to go away.  If you or someone you know is having thoughts of harming themselves or someone else call 911, call a suicide hotline (1-800-273-8255), get help some how.  Having been at this point, the person isn't thinking straight.  The person with these thoughts that are so consuming does not know where to turn.  Make the call before it is too late. 

The day started like just about any other.  Went to school for a bit.  No big issues anywhere.  Until I was driving home.  The thoughts flooded in.  The dam had broken.  Crying, bawling, sobbing all the way home.  It was uncontrollable.  The thoughts of suicide were coming fast and were unrelenting.  Nothing I tried got them out of the forefront of my mind.  Cuts to my arms, chest, thighs, legs.  Nothing.  They kept pouring in.  'People would be better off without you.'  'Your wife could be happy again if you were gone.'  'Your kids would be better having no dad, then the pathetic excuse for one you are.'  These are just thoughts.  You should be able to control your own thoughts.  You no longer can.  The thoughts have won, you have lost.  Severe depression has won, hope is lost. 

God, I just want these thoughts to end.  So you do the only rational thing you can think of at the time.  I could drown out the thoughts.  I know how to make them go away.  To the medicine cabinet I went.  Self-medication is a poor coping skill I have come to learn.  But, at the time, it was all I could think of.  Take some pills.  Doesn't work.  More pills, still nothing.  The thoughts are still there, running wild.  More pills.  The thoughts ease some.  More pills.  The thoughts have subsided for the most part.  You beat them.

Wow, it is getting hot in here.  Now it is cold.  Why am I breathing so heavy?  I am having to work to breathe.  Getting up and standing is out of the question.  What was once thoughts of suicide are becoming thoughts of "What have I done?"  The thoughts begin to jumble around making no sense.  Breathing fast and shallow, I can't catch my breath.  The next bit is a blur.  Up until the point where my wife and kids got home.  She knows something is wrong.  There is no hiding that something is very, very wrong.  I tell her.

I will pause here to tell you all this.  I can never take back the things I did.  I can not take back the pain I caused to the people who care for me.  This day was the scariest in my life, and the scariest for many others, especially my wife.  I can't apologize enough for the things I did that day, but I can make damn sure they never happen again.  Hopefully, with time, like the scars from the knife, these scars will fade and be replaced with great memories.

A call to my psychiatrist from my wife leads to him telling her to call 911 and have an ambulance come to take me to the hospital.  I stumble my way to the stairs as the sirens approach.  First to arrive, the police.  I have to be searched and patted down, then questioned.  The ambulance and fire crew are allowed in after the police finish.  I have to try and explain everything.  Things are still kind of a blur, I have no idea that my 5-year-old daughter is watching and hearing all of this from the top of the stairs.  This information is told to me by the paramedics in the ambulance, again in the ER, and by the nurse in the ER.  I needed to hear that.  It broke my heart to think of her seeing me like this.  I thought I had wanted help before.  Now I know I needed help.  I had to get better, not just for me, but for my wife and my kids who truly adore me.  It was that night in the ER and then ICU that I know I want to live and I never want to feel the way I have been feeling ever again.

All I remember of the ambulance ride to the emergency room is being yelled at to wake up and to stay awake.  Punches from the paramedic make my eyes open, but they close again.  Another hit and booming words "Breathe, stay with me, stay awake!"

Once I begin to come around later that evening I am told by the ER nurse that I had two choices.  Choice one: Go to a psychiatric hospital voluntarily, or choice two: involuntary admission in handcuffs and police escort.  I already know I need the help, I vow to go voluntarily, and I mean it.  Tomorrow morning a representative of the psychiatric hospital would be in to evaluate me and arrange for my transport to the facility.

The night is long in the ICU.  You can watch your vital signs as they are constantly monitored.  The alarms go off quite often in my room.  Blood pressure dips to 86/50 at times.  Pulse down into the 40's then up to the 120's.  Respirations slip to 4 per minute while I briefly drift to sleep.  I am getting replacement potassium through my IV which causes my arm to throb and feel like it is going to fall off.  Not much care is made in making someone who came in overdosed comfortable I guess.

The next day a visit from my general practice doctor, who mind you had no idea of anything going on, he reviews the chart and asks me some questions and talks about me going home.  Home?  In my mind I am thinking "What is he talking about home?  I thought I only had two options.  I want help, not home.  Not the same four walls that closed in on me less than 24 hours ago."  He decides to leave it up to the person from the psychiatric hospital on whether I should go or not.  Apparently to him I was well enough to go home... makes me question his doctoring abilities.

The lady comes in to talk with my wife and I, we discuss options, and once again I am back to the two options.  Voluntary or involuntary.  Once again, I stick to the voluntary path.  Although, I state I want to be released no later than Monday at 10:00 am (this was Friday at about noon) because of lecture.  In my mind this is all but agreed upon.  I will be taken by ambulance on the 30 mile trek from medical hospital to psychiatric hospital.  I had never ridden in an ambulance before and here I was, getting my second ride in 24 hours.   I don't recommend doing it this way though.

You truly do not know what to expect when you are admitted to a psychiatric hospital.  One flew over the cuckoo's nest is the extent of my understanding of them.  There are many rules about what you can and can not bring in.  No electronics at all, ok I get that.  No drawstrings, shoe laces, or hoodies, as you might hang yourself with the string, or attack someone else.  No outside books because, and I quote, "You could have soaked the pages in drugs."  You are only allowed two sets of clothes at a time.  No outside toiletries, which includes deodorant or toothpaste.  And believe me when I say it, their toiletries... not of good quality.  You get  a bottle of "body wash/shampoo" in one, some toothpaste that leaves your mouth feeling like you hadn't brushed in months, and a roller ball deodorant which should just drop the "de" because it was pointless.

When you are admitted you have to go through a question session, then you strip down naked so they can make sure you aren't hiding something and to see any bruises or cuts you may have.  After that you get to put on some drawstring-less shorts and a t-shirt and some spiffy socks with non-slip squiggles on the bottom and are escorted down a locked elevator, through a few locked doors until you reach your unit.  You are then given the brief tour of "Here is your room, here is where you have group sessions, here is the nurses station, and the schedule is by the door."  You scan the room not knowing why the other 14 or so people are here.  Then they all go to dinner, but you can't.  You are on suicide watch.  You can't leave the unit at all.  You and the guy talking to himself in the corner get to eat right here.  Humility, if you hadn't already found it yet, is the only thing left. 

I will stop here and wait for another post to go through my stay at the psychiatric hospital.  I am sure your eyeballs are hurting from reading so much by now.  I will say though, I did not meet my Monday release date that I had asked for.  I was there for 7 days.

The Darkness

I put on a very good show at times for people who don't really know me.  The people that know me best, however, have seen my pain first hand.  They had to watch as I spiraled, unable to help me until I wanted to help myself.  They are my heroes.  The ones who have stuck by me through this.  I owe them my life and so much more.  My wife has been very patient and supportive.  She has pushed me when I needed to be pushed and given me space when I needed it.  She has been instrumental in my getting help, pushing me to not back down from seeking the help I desperately needed.  Depression doesn't just effect the person with it, but it takes a heavy toll on those who care about that person. 

My recent bout with depression began with fleeting thoughts.  How worthless I was.  How nothing I did was right.  How I was undeserving of the people around me who loved me and cared about me.  These thoughts over time can take you to a very dark place, a place where in your mind there is no way out.

Compounding with those thoughts were the other contributing factors, also known as symptoms.  Not only do you have these thoughts, but you begin seeing things, as if those thoughts were reality.  I'm not talking about hallucinations, but skewed perspective on how things actually happen.  Everyday interactions, even the best of them, become in your mind, worse.  Everything around you hates you.  Everything you encounter, you just know, is looking down on you.  Because after all, in your mind, you aren't worth it.  Not worthy of love, of friends, of family, and at times, of using air to breathe.  You pull away from everyone.  What used to be conversation, is now one word answers.  What used to be socialization, is now isolation.  What used to be happy, is now maddening sadness.

It is hard to explain how your brain becomes so mad at you.  You try to think positive thoughts, but it comes back full force.  For years, on top of years, you took everything and pushed it down to a place no one could see, even you for the most part weren't allowed to open it up.  Then all of a sudden it reaches capacity.  Every hurtful comment from a classmate as a kid, every snide remark about your appearance, every jab anyone ever took at you comes flooding out.  All that pent up rage and frustration pours out of your brain like an erupting volcano sending rivers of burning hot memories flowing over the inside of your closed eyelids.

Closing your eyes is no solace from depression.  For a while I was sleeping maybe 2 hours a night.  My brain wouldn't shut off in it's rage of self-loathing.  Time would tick by.  You find yourself becoming sleep deprived, which only makes you more angry, and more irritable.  You begin to fear what you might do or say to someone you care about.  So you pull away even more.  If I do not talk to them, if I do not get too close, I can't get upset.  I won't explode on them in a misplaced and misguided fit.  So who do you take it out on?  Bingo.  Yourself.

There are symptoms of depression I never really knew about.  Like the pain.  Back pain, leg pain, headaches, stomach pain.  So now, you have self-hatred, can't sleep, in pain, and a ticking time bomb of irritability and anger.  The thoughts begin.  You are a terrible person, you are a drain on everyone who knows you, you are inconsequential.  You are quickly becomes you aren't.  As in, you aren't worth it.  People would be better off if you weren't there anymore.  Lives would be better, if you ceased to live.

Then it began, and it wouldn't leave.  Thoughts of harming myself.  Thoughts of ending myself.  Numbers rolled through my head.  Five of them to be exact.  To most it would just be a odd string of numbers.  To me, it was the combination to the safe that contained a way out of life.  I battled these thoughts, and this is about the time I knew I needed help.  This is when I reached out.  When I had a plan.  I didn't want this for my life.  I wanted to be me again, not a broken down shell of what I once was.

I went to the psychiatrist, and he gave me pills.  Pills to help, or so I thought.  The pills made me foggy.  I was slow, couldn't concentrate on things and was left to my own thoughts, which were still in a bad place.  How do you escape from yourself?  Normal distractions didn't work.  I no longer enjoyed anything.  If I smiled or laughed it was because it was expected at that time, but I didn't feel levity, just pain.  So I remembered what worked one time.  I was in class, Human Development to be exact, and we were talking about death and suicide.  The only thing I really learned from that entire class was that I wasn't normal.  I was devolved.  But, during this class I couldn't take it, but couldn't leave either.  I dug my ring into my cheekbone.  Pain.  I could feel that, and it took my mind off of things.  I went home with a dent in my cheek and a bruise from digging the metal in.

Pain could take some of the thoughts away.  So I cut myself.  Over and over again.  Places hidden from the world as to not let others see.  Some of the scars still remain, and are a reminder of where I have been, and the journey I am on.  I am sure they will fade with time as most things do. 

This was my life.  My life before treatment began to work.  Treatment took quite some time to really take hold.  It took months.  Months of medications and pitfalls.  Victories and defeats.  It all came to a tipping point on a sunny, warm September day...

Hello New World

I have a problem.  I realize this.  Most of you do not know about this problem.  But lately I have been thinking about opening up this problem to the outside world.  It is a scary proposition, but after thoughtful consideration, I believe I am ready.

I suffer from depression.  Actually, my clinical diagnosis is Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) and Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD).  I have kept this a secret from most people, and by most I mean the vast majority of the people in my life.  I have had to act, and lie at times, to keep this a secret, but no more.

Our nation has a mental health problem.  It is not that everyone is crazy, it is just having a disorder like mine is almost taboo.  The only way to get around this is to shine some light on the subject.  Although my flashlight is very small, it may light the way for one person, and that is enough for me.

My depression started long ago.  I am not sure when or why.  I guess that is often the case.  I remember being very sad even back to elementary school.  Definitely I had what I now know is depression by about age 13 or 14.  I had my ups and downs.  Some periods were fine, others were very dark.  I went quite awhile without a major episode.  Probably eight years or so.  But a few years ago I began sliding back downhill.  Further and further down, until I hit bottom.

Like many others with depression or any number of other mental illnesses, I did not seek treatment for my problem for a very long time.  When I did decide to get help I was amazed at just how hard it was to find the help I wanted and needed.  I spent a few days calling different psychiatry and psychology offices.  Every time they either didn't take my insurance, or even more often were not accepting new patients.  I finally found one that was taking new patients and my insurance.  The catch?  The next available appointment was over three months away.  I almost lost it.  So, I asked if there was any hope of something sooner, and the disengaged receptionist told me that I could be put on the waiting list for a cancellation, but that wasn't very likely.  Even more frustrated I said "So short of checking in to a hospital or killing myself, what are my options?"  The woman had the gall to tell me "Well, unfortunately even hospitals are turning away some patients."  This was...  Shocking.  I could barely mutter any words.  When given two options she just told me that the only sure fire way was to kill myself.  Nice.

I called one last place, a place I had tried before but was closed when I called.  Last ditch effort to get help.  They actually took me.  First appointment was a couple weeks away, much better than a season away.  They put me on the waiting list for cancellations, and they actually had one within a couple days and I got in sooner.

The psychiatrist I saw was surprised I never sought treatment before.  He said most people who go as long as I did don't make it.  I guess it is the little victories.  I was put on some medications, had to be switched because the one was causing some odd reactions.  I won't go too far into the medication merry-go-round that ensues to try and find the right combination with this post.  I have to save something right?

So I guess this just about does it for my introductory post.  My next one I will talk about some of the symptoms I had leading up to seeking treatment.