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)"