I don’t know. I’m sleep deprived.
Okay onto the post:
So I was weighing my options today. With the feelings of “I’d rather be dead” and “I hate being alive” and “no one would miss me” resurfacing, slightly, the knowledge that revealing these feelings to the wrong person could land me in inpatient again.
Of course I don’t want to be inpatient again. Just knowing that I needed it makes me sad. I see it as a suicide procrastinating house instead of something that really helps. How unfortunate.
Also unfortunate is that some of the things that make me hate the hospital make me love the hospital. For example: the structure and routine. I’m forced to wake up at 6 or 6:30 am every morning for vitals and weight and a doctor’s visit (why psych doctors think they’ll get anything out of me that buttcrack early is beyond me). This early morning leaves me in a convenient, mostly thoughtless fog. When this fog starts wearing off around breakfast time, I’m given my morning meds. With the dose of meds comes another dose of fog.
Being hazy helps me stay out of trouble while I’m there (trouble like puking, cutting, or having a temper tantrum can all end up making my stay longer). Also, it helps me spew my plans for coping skills and safe places to the nurses and therapists that I hate. This way, I get out faster. So I’ve gained a few days’ break and the right to tell my job and school “I’m crazy go easy on me,” but no real long-term benefits outside of bad memories and a feelings of failure, shame, and worthlessness.
Once upon a time, during my first psych ward stay, we were doing vitals with a young nurse. She told us we shouldn’t be so stressed out, angry , and sad. She was the one working full time and planning a wedding. Look, lady, not ok. Most of us had never felt loved or that our time and effort at work or school was valued and you’re complaining about these things?
Now I’m the one working 50 hours, planning a wedding (admittedly slowly), all on top of trying to graduate college ON TOP OF a biological predisposition to mental instability, breakdowns, and piss-poor “coping skills.” It’s really a wonder how I’m not dead yet.