Notes from a Psych Unit

“Fall down seven times, stand up eight.” It’s been a while since I’ve put up a blog post, and this one should really be called “Notes from a Psych Unit.” It is my goal to publish a blog post every other Wednesday, but I’ve been down for the count for a while now, and I just spent something over two weeks in the hospital.

I wish I had an excuse like I was in Bora Bora without internet, but truth be told, I had an altogether different sort of “vacation.” In all painful honestly, I was on a psych unit, fighting for my life. Before anyone goes all Nurse Ratched, the psych unit I was on was extremely well run, and the staff was very kind – it was a long, long, long way from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (but I should note it was also no Waldorf Astoria or The Plaza).

All of this was set into motion when I was sitting in one of my therapist’s offices. I started by talking about average, run-of-the-mill stuff when suddenly, I was sharing the inner sanctum – the suicidality that had been front and center, despite my efforts to keep the Beast under wraps.

I realize that I have been striving to beat back the Beast – without help. Spoiler: there is no time more important to seek out the help of another person than when you’re fighting the Beast. I don’t remember exactly what I said to my therapist, but I recall him asking if he should call my psychiatrist, and I failed to give him an answer (which, essentially, was tantamount to answering, “Yes, call him”). He managed to catch my doctor in a free moment, and they decided that I needed to go into the hospital.

Although I was initially furious at both of them, I now admit that I felt a palpable sense of relief as my therapist escorted me down to the Emergency Department. Once I was on the unit, I pretty much slept round the clock for the first three days. If that doesn’t show the exhaustion one feels when trying to beat back the Beast alone, I don’t know what does.

Gradually, I felt the exhaustion from fighting the Beast slowly lift and the level of fear that the Beast had yet again instilled in me that had been clouding my vision, judgment, and whole being, disappear like a fog lifting from my brain.

I should note that the Beast wanted nothing to do with my seeking refuge and safety in the hospital. That is why I was silent when my therapist asked if I was suicidal. I consider lying to be the antithesis of who I am and what I stand for, so saying “no” wasn’t an option. As mentioned, you could call my failure to answer my therapist’s query the same thing as an answer (my therapist and doctor clearly did).

In sum, if things get to the point where you are seriously considering – or worse yet, planning – to end your life, talk to someone. ANYONE. Whether you come out and say you’re suicidal, or whether someone knows you well enough to recognize your level of despair (as my therapist and doctor were able to), be HONEST.

Your life is worth everything. Absolutely. Everything.

For me, entering the hospital cues self-loathing of monumental proportions. Every single time I check-in, I hate myself for staying alive. I know I’ve turned a corner when I can give myself credit for keeping myself alive, and the ever-elusive sense of “hope” and I reacquaint ourselves.

I have learned that, in life, it is crucial to have a sense of perspective and remember, “This too shall pass.” It is never more important to put the Beast in its place than right now. Do not let it own you; it doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Remember, “Never, ever ever ever ever give up.”