My very first post on this blog was about a man from California, and how a lunchtime conversation helped change the way I look at things, even if it was only for a short while. So I felt it fitting to have my final post of 2015 be somewhat similar.
I had a lot of reservations about doing group therapy. My first instinct was to just bullshit my way through the 5 week program and just do whatever I had to do so I could go back to work. Now that I'm a little over half way through the program, I feel so lucky that I'm going through it, and giving it as much as I can.
I never intended to mention being molested, or my gender identity struggles. Yet I've been able, at times, to speak somewhat openly about the gender identity, and have at least mentioned being molested. I've even taken to wearing hair clips a couple times, like today.
The first week of group I didn't really say much. The first day the only thing I remember saying was when I was introduced and had to say why I was there. The second day I had to miss because one of the boys was sick and couldn't go to school. The third day, I think the only time I spoke was when I did my daily check-in thing.
Week 2 started off much the same. But a twist came along. Either Monday or Tuesday of that second week, I mentioned feeling socially awkward, as well as how I felt my wife and I are inevitably headed toward divorcing. During one break, a woman who had been in the hospital with me after Thanksgiving, and had started group a couple days after me, came over and tried taking to me about divorcing, how she and her husband are currently separated and if I needed to talk she'd be willing to listen. The whole time she talked to me (which was nearly the entire 15 minute break) my body was super tense and I just wanted to crawl inside myself, the anxiety was so high. During the other break, this young woman from Pennsylvania, who sat directly across from me, came over, and said she, too, suffered from social anxiety and felt socially awkward, and we could talk if I wanted. Same thing. My body was extremely tense, and I just wanted to disappear.
A funny thing happened, though. The next day (or maybe two days later, not sure, but I'm pretty sure it was the next day) I switched where I sat, and chose to sit next to the woman from Pennsylvania, a small table between us.
Over the past couple weeks, she and I have talked pretty frequently. It started off somewhat awkward - one day, we had to pair off to do our daily check-in, then report on each other. She and I were partners, and after going through our checklists we sat silently, as the other pairs around the room chatted casually and freely.
Ever since then, though, our conversations have been more and more casual. It doesn't feel awkward to me, and I believe she feels the same. We are almost always the first two in the room for group, and have a few minutes to chat. Sometimes we do, sometimes we don't, and it's OK. Neither of us pressures the other into conversation just for conversation's sake. When we talk, we're both usually pretty engaged in the conversation. (I'll admit, since the most recent adjustment of my meds, I'm finding it hard to focus again. I'm getting distracted way too easily.)
Today after group, we even stood outside and talked for a few minutes. If my car hadn't been so embarrassingly dirty (a bunch of food crumbs all over the passenger seat, mostly. I need to vacuum) I would have offered her a ride home, since her car is in the shop.
I'm not looking forward to Monday. My friend, the woman from Pennsylvania, will be finishing the program and going home. I'm happy for her, and wish all the best for her, but the selfish side of me wants her to finish when I do, so I can have someone to talk to the next couple weeks.
If it hadn't been for the woman from Pennsylvania, I don't know if I would have allowed myself to accept and embrace group therapy as I have. She has done as much for me the past few weeks as any of my therapists. While the man from California had a fleeting impact on my life that only lasted a day or two, I feel the impact from the woman from Pennsylvania is going to be much deeper, last much longer. I am so very glad we met, and although there is a possibility we will never see each other again after Monday, I'm certain we will continue to email, continue to learn about each other, continue to be friends. I cannot wait to see what her future holds.
31 December 2015
29 December 2015
I'm Still Standing
Hey, all. I just want to let you know I am still around. I feel bad that I haven't written much lately, but with group therapy, individual therapy, meds constantly being changed and adjusted, the holidays, I just feel like I'm all over the place right now and stretched kind of thin. Unfortunately right now that means things I enjoy, such as writing here, have taken a back seat.
I'll be back soon though. I promise.
Title is the title of a great Elton John song.
I'll be back soon though. I promise.
Title is the title of a great Elton John song.
13 December 2015
Static
I'm going to visit work at some point this week for the first time since I went into the hospital. So about 3 1/2 weeks or so. I've had several people tell me there are a bunch of different rumors going around about why I'm out, and at least 2 people have told me quite a few people are taking shit about me.
But here's the thing: I don't care.
I'm done with worrying about the petty drama and high school attitudes. When I finally go back to work towards the end of next month, I will do so with the knowledge that I will do my job with passion. I will do so knowing that my managers have all the faith in the world that they can rely on me. I will do so knowing that, after finishing this therapy, the best possible version of me will be showing up for the first time. And I will do so knowing who my true friends are.
The rest, the people who don't matter.. Nothing but static, baby. Nothing but static.
But here's the thing: I don't care.
I'm done with worrying about the petty drama and high school attitudes. When I finally go back to work towards the end of next month, I will do so with the knowledge that I will do my job with passion. I will do so knowing that my managers have all the faith in the world that they can rely on me. I will do so knowing that, after finishing this therapy, the best possible version of me will be showing up for the first time. And I will do so knowing who my true friends are.
The rest, the people who don't matter.. Nothing but static, baby. Nothing but static.
08 December 2015
I'm Not Okay, I'm Not O Fucking K
I was expecting to go into the hospital either Sunday November 29, or Monday the 30th. So when the nurse practitioner who prescribes my meds called Friday, the 27th, and said she wanted me to go in right away, I was freaked out. I convinced her to at least let me finish my shift, then go home and get packed and say goodbye to the boys, and check in that evening.
Friday was full of more internal turmoil than I've ever had, I think. I knew going to an inpatient treatment program was a good idea. And Tracy had been asking me for a week to check myself in. But now, it was mandated as a condition of keeping my job. So even though I had somewhat resigned myself to the idea, I was suddenly feeling extremely pressured.
Checking in sucked. Even though my admission was allegedly already set up, I still had to sit in the emergency room lobby for close to an hour while they confirmed with my shrink, therapist, and human resources department that I was actually supposed to be there.
Once everything got sorted and they took me up to the ward, that was when I truly lost it. It was real.
When I first went into the ward, I had to be weighed (215.7) and have my blood pressure checked. These were both done in the common area, and six of the other seven patients were in the room, watching TV. I tried to stop my legs from shaking, tried not to cry, but failed on both fronts.
Next was the "full body scan" - a skin check to make sure I hadn't cut myself anywhere, and that I wasn't attempting to sneak in any razors, shoelaces, plastic bags, or other suicidal implements. It was a lot more thorough than I expected, and I had to be fully nude for close to five minutes in front of two rather attractive nurses. Luckily the fear kept me from showing any "excitement" while they examined me. I was kinda surprised they didn't make me take the piercing out of my junk - never know, I might try to use it to pierce my jugular or something - but I got to leave it in.
They gave me a gown, some pants, and a robe to wear for the first night, because their policy is you don't get your own clothes until the doctor sees you. The first thing I noticed was the two random blood stains on the robe.
At some point during the middle of the night, a ninth patient was brought to the ward. She was a younger girl, mid twenties, and woke up damn near all of us. She started off agitated but quiet. Within about twenty minutes she was so loud and screaming that they sedated her and put her in isolation before she even made it into her bedroom. Fun first night for her.
There were ten beds in the ward, and nine patients - three men, six women, two people to a room. One of the guys couldn't have roommates for some reason, so we weren't going to get a tenth person on the floor.
I spent the entire first night in my room. And over half the day Saturday. When I finally came out Saturday, I decided to call the wife and check in, let her know how things were going. Within thirty seconds this proved to be a terrible idea. She started the conversation off by accusing me of cheating on her with her brother's girlfriend, saying that she'd already texted this woman saying if she wanted me she could have me. So, for the second time in less than twelve hours, most of the other patients saw me sitting there crying.
At dinner Saturday I finally talked to a couple of the other patients. Nothing of substance, just idle chit chat. But after dinner it was back to my bed with my books. I finished two books my first two nights.
Sunday was better. I forced myself to socialize more, and felt better after talking to one woman in particular. Let's call her "Stella." But I still spent most of the day alone, either reading or coloring.
Monday the actual therapy started, finally. First was a meeting with the chief psychologist and his four students. Talk about intimidating. Four doctors doing rapid fire questioning for close to half an hour. Then a group session, a small break, another group, lunch, visitation hour, then the final group. Between breakfast and lunch, five of the other eight patients were discharged. Also, after meeting with the doctors in the morning, I was finally allowed to change into some of the clothes I'd brought. So no more blood stained robe. Monday night several new patients were brought in, mostly guys, all of whom stayed in their rooms. I had a new roommate but didn't see his face the entire day, he just slept the entire day Monday. And most of Tuesday.
Tuesday was much the same. The other three patients who were in with me all weekend were discharged, the last being "Stella," so I was left with a whole new group of patients, none of whom came to a single group session the entire day. For the second and third group sessions, I was the only person who attended. The chief psychologist also informed me Tuesday that they were bringing my wife in for our Wednesday morning meeting so he and his students could basically see how we interacted. So, that upped the anxiety and I spent most of the day shaking and nervous because the last time my wife and I did any sort of therapy together, it was basically an hour of her and my psychiatrist at the time attacking me.
Wednesday came and the session with my wife went much better than I'd expected, but was still uncomfortable. At least this time when she tried to go on the offensive the doctors reigned her in. The best part of Wednesday, though, was being told that I'd finally be going home Thursday. The rest of the day was, as usual, the three group sessions, which most of the other patients still refused to join in on.
When Thursday morning came I was excited to be finally leaving. By the time I finally left, that evening, my anxiety had shot back through the roof. My biggest fear then, and still now, was this: when I came close to killing myself, it was near the end of my week of vacation. Now I was being sent home, and being told that I wouldn't be going back to work until early January, while I did the outpatient treatment program. So I was suddenly being put back in the exact same situation I was in when I felt suicidal - home by myself the majority of the day for an extended period.
I started the outpatient program today. They changed my return to work date from January 11 to January 25. So an extra two weeks alone more often than not.
This scares the fuck out of me.
Title from My Chemical Romance, "I'm Not OK (I Promise)"
Friday was full of more internal turmoil than I've ever had, I think. I knew going to an inpatient treatment program was a good idea. And Tracy had been asking me for a week to check myself in. But now, it was mandated as a condition of keeping my job. So even though I had somewhat resigned myself to the idea, I was suddenly feeling extremely pressured.
Checking in sucked. Even though my admission was allegedly already set up, I still had to sit in the emergency room lobby for close to an hour while they confirmed with my shrink, therapist, and human resources department that I was actually supposed to be there.
Once everything got sorted and they took me up to the ward, that was when I truly lost it. It was real.
When I first went into the ward, I had to be weighed (215.7) and have my blood pressure checked. These were both done in the common area, and six of the other seven patients were in the room, watching TV. I tried to stop my legs from shaking, tried not to cry, but failed on both fronts.
Next was the "full body scan" - a skin check to make sure I hadn't cut myself anywhere, and that I wasn't attempting to sneak in any razors, shoelaces, plastic bags, or other suicidal implements. It was a lot more thorough than I expected, and I had to be fully nude for close to five minutes in front of two rather attractive nurses. Luckily the fear kept me from showing any "excitement" while they examined me. I was kinda surprised they didn't make me take the piercing out of my junk - never know, I might try to use it to pierce my jugular or something - but I got to leave it in.
They gave me a gown, some pants, and a robe to wear for the first night, because their policy is you don't get your own clothes until the doctor sees you. The first thing I noticed was the two random blood stains on the robe.
At some point during the middle of the night, a ninth patient was brought to the ward. She was a younger girl, mid twenties, and woke up damn near all of us. She started off agitated but quiet. Within about twenty minutes she was so loud and screaming that they sedated her and put her in isolation before she even made it into her bedroom. Fun first night for her.
There were ten beds in the ward, and nine patients - three men, six women, two people to a room. One of the guys couldn't have roommates for some reason, so we weren't going to get a tenth person on the floor.
I spent the entire first night in my room. And over half the day Saturday. When I finally came out Saturday, I decided to call the wife and check in, let her know how things were going. Within thirty seconds this proved to be a terrible idea. She started the conversation off by accusing me of cheating on her with her brother's girlfriend, saying that she'd already texted this woman saying if she wanted me she could have me. So, for the second time in less than twelve hours, most of the other patients saw me sitting there crying.
At dinner Saturday I finally talked to a couple of the other patients. Nothing of substance, just idle chit chat. But after dinner it was back to my bed with my books. I finished two books my first two nights.
Sunday was better. I forced myself to socialize more, and felt better after talking to one woman in particular. Let's call her "Stella." But I still spent most of the day alone, either reading or coloring.
Monday the actual therapy started, finally. First was a meeting with the chief psychologist and his four students. Talk about intimidating. Four doctors doing rapid fire questioning for close to half an hour. Then a group session, a small break, another group, lunch, visitation hour, then the final group. Between breakfast and lunch, five of the other eight patients were discharged. Also, after meeting with the doctors in the morning, I was finally allowed to change into some of the clothes I'd brought. So no more blood stained robe. Monday night several new patients were brought in, mostly guys, all of whom stayed in their rooms. I had a new roommate but didn't see his face the entire day, he just slept the entire day Monday. And most of Tuesday.
Tuesday was much the same. The other three patients who were in with me all weekend were discharged, the last being "Stella," so I was left with a whole new group of patients, none of whom came to a single group session the entire day. For the second and third group sessions, I was the only person who attended. The chief psychologist also informed me Tuesday that they were bringing my wife in for our Wednesday morning meeting so he and his students could basically see how we interacted. So, that upped the anxiety and I spent most of the day shaking and nervous because the last time my wife and I did any sort of therapy together, it was basically an hour of her and my psychiatrist at the time attacking me.
Wednesday came and the session with my wife went much better than I'd expected, but was still uncomfortable. At least this time when she tried to go on the offensive the doctors reigned her in. The best part of Wednesday, though, was being told that I'd finally be going home Thursday. The rest of the day was, as usual, the three group sessions, which most of the other patients still refused to join in on.
When Thursday morning came I was excited to be finally leaving. By the time I finally left, that evening, my anxiety had shot back through the roof. My biggest fear then, and still now, was this: when I came close to killing myself, it was near the end of my week of vacation. Now I was being sent home, and being told that I wouldn't be going back to work until early January, while I did the outpatient treatment program. So I was suddenly being put back in the exact same situation I was in when I felt suicidal - home by myself the majority of the day for an extended period.
I started the outpatient program today. They changed my return to work date from January 11 to January 25. So an extra two weeks alone more often than not.
This scares the fuck out of me.
Title from My Chemical Romance, "I'm Not OK (I Promise)"
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