Chapter 2: In Which Joy is assigned a room and a therapist and finally gets some food.

So, after a whole day of nothing other than a grilled cheese (with bacon) Matt snagged me from the hospital cafe, I'm starving.  I've been poked and prodded and stuck and examined and questioned and criticized and buckled in and, now at the "facility", locked up. Rules are being thrown at me so fast I can't catch them all and I have to continually look at the bulletin boards in the hallway to see WTF is going on hour to hour. 

The nurse gets to do a body evaluation - seeing what marks are on me if any.  That was when we both noticed the blood pressure cuff had caused blood blisters all over my arms - so I fit right in with the other inmates who had trach scars and wrist slits.  Drop pants, lift shirt, check my bra for underwire, which was a no-no along with drawstrings, shoelaces, belts, hair conditioner, tweezers, etc.  No cavity searches, thankfully.  And then run down the list of preliminary questions - any medications?  No.  Health problems? Nope.  Abuse?  Negative.  Their first solution was to get me on a mood stabilizer, something mild since I told them upfront that a Benadryl will knock me out - 50mg of Zoloft it is.
 
They assign me to a room directly across from the smaller gathering/day room.  Noisy, but convenient.  The rather nice nurse makes the bed, gets me towels and toiletries including a completely inadequate plastic comb and watered down shampoo/body wash.  I curl up in a fetal position on the bed, cause I'm out of options and completely exhausted at that point.

I finally get to see my assigned shrink shortly after dinner.  He sized me up within 10 minutes, asking questions I'd been answering all day, and determined I was suffering from major depressive disorder.  I don't know if I agreed entirely - I mean, to me, disorder means you cannot function and it impacts your entire life, all the freakin' time.  I'd been functioning relatively okay for the previous 8 months, considering my circumstances.  I consider it a major depressive "episode", with the understanding that I had quit taking Wellbutrin over 2 months prior since my goddamn hair was falling out.  Gotta love those side effects.

Through blurry eyes I tried to convince him I was "fine, totally fine, I have no idea why I'm here."  Here's my book titled "Joy is okay, you can let her go" and he said in his thick Indian accent "Yeah, I'm not buying it."  I asked for a second opinion, and got to meet with a large Greek man with an even thicker accent, who concurred with Dr. SeeThruYourBS, and determined I needed a few days in Hotel Cuckoo.

He saw me for 2 minutes at a time, each day, but still had the final say on when I would leave.  The first night he said "Probably Friday or Monday", but would never really commit to a specific day. I asked them if I could attend dinner, but the psychiatrist has to give you permission to leave the ward for any reason, other than the courtyard to smoke.  This is one of the last remaining hospitals here that still allows smoking, I learned - all the others have switched to the patch, no cigs.  Not that I smoke, but it was my only opportunity to get outside & get some "fresh" air, so I took it.  Anyway, I had not been granted "cafeteria privileges" yet, so I ate out of a Styrofoam container like take out in the day room. 

I barely met my roommates that night - one slender quiet black girl and another boisterous Russian alcoholic, both older than me but still close to my age.  They slept a lot, so we didn't interact too often.  After dinner we lined up in our respective day rooms (divided by last name) for medication.  I was given trazodone, if I so desired, to help me sleep.  Considering the events of the previous 12 hours, I was more than happy to line up and take one, just to get some shut eye.

While I'm waiting for meds, this very skinny shaky woman with grey hair and a beige cable-knit sweater (in Florida in August) is talking to a guy I can only describe as Tyrone Biggums.  For reference:


That guy.  He asks me if I'm taking meds.  I shake my head yes.  Then he asks Shaky Hippie Lady if she's taken hers (this was common, since final smoke break was after meds and wasn't allowed til everyone had gone.  Ever seen 40 addicts going thru withdrawal and nic-fitting at the same time?  It gets ugly.)

Shaky Hippie:  No, they want me to take them but I won't.  I'm going to expose them for what they did to me.  I know the truth, they don't want me to take them because then I'll expose them.  I've reported them... (this went on for a full 15 minutes)

I backed away slowly, tried not to make any sudden movements, and retreated to my room after meds were dispersed.  Thankfully it knocked me out clear through 6 am, when a loud-ass nurse came in to take vital signs.  Hoo-rah.

That was my first day there, aside from Matt coming to visit that night and the conversations I overheard from other visitors.  Stay tuned for parts 3 and more, which include paranoid schizophrenics and crazy people sex.

Joy Goes to the Nuthouse

My absence following my last post was not without cause.  I fell into a deep, deep depression, and felt I had no other way out.  I couldn't even see the hands that were outstretched offering to help me, or more often, batted them away in refusal of being considered "weak." But instead of doing anything rash, I finally reached out for help in the only way I felt remained to me - my local hospital.

I drove myself to the ER and parked in the garage.  I sat in the car for a solid five minutes before shutting it off, laughing internally at the absurdity of both my happy name and the colorful butterflies on my shirt.  Externally, I didn't appear depressed.  Internally, I felt like I was dying, sometimes already dead.  In hindsight, there were many times I could have turned and run - I could have stayed on Riverside Boulevard and just driven into work instead.  I could have gotten back in my car and left.  I could have walked out of the waiting room before my number was called.  But something was nagging me in the back of my mind saying "yes, this is scary - but the alternative is scarier."

The nurse took my BP and vitals, and asked why I was there.  I couldn't talk, I just started crying.  She asked the question, the Big "S", and I nodded through my tears.  She made a call to the back desk, telling them she had "another number 9" or some shit, to which I could hear the nurse on the other end of the phone exclaim "oh, lord", likely with a roll of her eyes.  It wouldn't be the last time I felt like nothing other than a huge inconvenience.

The ER doctor pulled a pretty fast one on me, I'm ashamed to admit.  Here's the extent of our very brief conversation.

Doc:  So, I understand you're feeling depressed?
Me:   Yes.  My daughter was stillborn 8 months ago, and I feel hopeless.
Doc:  I'm sorry to hear that.  What were you thinking about doing?
Me:   (shrug)  I hadn't really thought of any particular way...
Doc:  Like... take a bunch of pills?  (I shake my head no)  Shoot yourself?  (I shake my head no).
Me:   No... like, I'll be in my car and-
Doc:  Oh, you think about crashing it?
Me:   (thinking "no jackass, I was GOING to say I start thinking and dwelling on stuff and then I feel upset and hopeless but....") Um. Not really. I guess?  Maybe?  Probably not. I dunno...

Doc:  Well, we'll have someone take care of you.

So, everyone I talked to so far knew why I was there - because of the depression compounded with the grief of losing Coraline.  After I talked to the doc, a large male nurse sat with me for a while until a "sitter" got there.  The sitter walks in, visibly about 8 months pregnant, and flips on the television to A Baby Story.  AYFKM.  I'm like "hey, can we watch anything but this?" and she graciously complied.

So, I sit there watching Pawn Stars for 3 hours (want to know the maximum amount of time you can watch Pawn Stars without dropping IQ points is? About 2 minutes)  and I ask the sitter to find out wtf is going on.  They took blood & urine & I expected they were waiting on a psych consult.  Oh, if only I had gone to a hospital that had an actual psych ward (this one, apparently, did not).

Me:  What's going on?  It's been 3 hours and I don't know what the deal is.

Nurse:  Oh, they're waiting on a bed for you.

Me:   A bed? Like upstairs?
Nurse:  No, in a facility.
Me:  What?  For what? What do you mean?

Nurse:  For the Baker Act.

Me:  WHAT?!?

Cue complete epic meltdown.  The fact that I drove myself to the hospital, checked myself in and asked for help meant nothing.  That day I learned if you say (or agree to) certain things to an ER doctor, they are legally obligated to send you to a mental health facility for an evaluation.  There's some confusion over whether its for 24 or 72 hours - it depends on the psychiatrist's evaluation and subsequent secondary evaluation, and whether you are deemed competent enough to consent to voluntary treatment.  So, I was Baker Acted, aka - the Amanda Bynes Driveway Fire Special.

I call Matt, he comes to the hospital, and the ER doc explains there's really no backing out of it once its initiated.  Unless he rescinded the order which, since I was crying hysterically, he was disinclined to do.  And I was somewhat inclined to agree with him. My corporate insurance positioned me to be transferred same day, unlike three other patients in the same room with no insurance who were just being held in there riding out their 72 hour mandated stay.  Transportation method was non-negotiable, and I was whisked away in all the comfort and glory of a yellow gurney, transported via stretch ambulance to the "facility". Traumatizing and not at all helpful to my present stress/depression/anxiety.

One paramedic sat in the back with me.  I don't know where he thought I was going, but - protocol.  He tried to put me at ease, told me about the facility, but I was in no way mentally or emotionally prepared for what I encountered when they wheeled me through the front door of the "facility."  A door to the left was marked "DO NOT OPEN: ELOPEMENT RISK."  I was dismayed to find out what was behind curtain number one, as the paramedics wheeled me towards that door.

There were people everywhere.  Walking all over the hallways, in and out of rooms, some with flat, mashed-down slippers, more in papery scrubs I later referred to as a nuthouse tuxedo.  They wheeled me all the way down to the nurses' station, past patient rooms so of course everyone gawks at the incoming whacko.  It's a while before I see the doc, so I go to one of the day rooms where the TV is on at volume level 60+ and I can't change it. Oprah yelled at me, that was fun.  There's a few "normal" looking people chilling in their pj's watching TV, so I sit for a while. 

A young, young girl (18, 19 tops) goes skipping - literally skipping - by the door.  I'm still in a state of shock and anxiety and I can't imagine anyone having a grand ole time in this place, when she skips in and sits next to me.  She's got a mouth full of braces, mismatched eyeliner (like, one eye had it and one didn't a la Clockwork Orange) a red sparkly headband with a bow, and is wearing a skirt over her jeans a la an un-pregnant Juno, which I'll call her for the purpose of the story. (I came up with nicknames for everyone, since I couldn't keep em all straight)

Juno:   Are you here on a Baker Act?
Me:     (nod yes)
Juno:   Me too.  Why, if you don't mind me asking?
Me:     Depression.  My daughter died.
Juno:   (genuine sympathy) Oh, I'm sorry.  (pause)  I'm here because I cussed out a nurse.  And went like this (puts her middle finger up like the "loser" sign in the middle of her forehead)
Me:     I'm guessing she didn't like that.
Juno:   Nope.  She put me here out of SPITE. (gets up and skips happily away) 

This was the first of many times to follow that I wanted to scream I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!!!!!

Depression: A poem

Normally I try to shy away from harsh language, but this is the most literal translation I can give regarding my feelings right now.

Fuck you depression.

Fuck you for making me sit here like a goddamn leper, shunning myself from my family and the only time I should be happy during the day.

Fuck you for making me paranoid and unwilling to take any modicum of risk out of delusional fear.

Fuck you for always telling me how horrible I am, even in the middle of trying to better myself.

Fuck you for making me feel so alone in the world, and like everyone is staring and pointing and laughing at me for being such a fucking loser.

Fuck you for ruining perfectly good nights because I can’t control my feelings.

Fuck you for never letting go no matter how hard I try.

Fuck you for trying to destroy the good things I have, and then making me feel shittier for being such a horrible wife/mother/friend.

Fuck you for always having the last laugh, on or off medication.

Fuck you for filling me with doubt and fear and hate.

Fuck you for making me never see the positive, only the negative, always the negative.

Fuck you for being sneaky enough to let me appear normal.

Fuck you for constantly reminding me I’m not.

Fuck you for keeping me lazy and fat and stupid and ugly and unmotivated and jealous and angry.

Fuck you for blaming everything on me, always on me.

Fuck you for making an impossible situation harder.

Fuck you for never letting me think things are going to get better or go right, ever.

Fuck you for robbing me of the words I want to use but can’t think of, because it hurts too much to think.

Fuck you for confusing this with actual grief and never knowing if I’m progressing or regressing.

Fuck you for allowing me to ponder all the different ways there are to kill myself.

Fuck you for making me too chicken shit to try.

Fuck you for all the shit you do to me, to my family.

Fuck you.

Just breathe - easier said than done.

Today it's hitting me full force.  I don't breathe so much as sigh, and that's only after realizing I've been holding my breath in anxiety.

Matt didn't sign up for this.  He deserves a wife who doesn't battle inner demons on a daily basis and someone who can actually be a wife to him.Parker deserves a mom who doesn't second guess everything she does and panic when he's not around because she's worried something awful will happen. 

I feel like everyone has pretty much deserted me.  It's that awkward "how ya doin" and that, on their end, is supposed to be enough.  I'm drowning and suffocating and screaming in a crowd and a "how you holding up?" is supposed to suffice.  It'll have to, because, again, no one wants to talk about "it".

My head is so crowded.  Crowded with negative thoughts, to the point where I have nothing but.

I'm so damn scared of everything, I end up talking myself out of even applying for jobs before I get rejected because I know I will.  I have no confidence. Zero. Zip.  None in myself.  I only screw up.  I only ruin everything.  I wouldn't hire me.  I don't look right, talk right, act right.  I'm never the perfect fit for the job, and if on the rare occasion I am, someone else is ALWAYS better.  I'm never going to catch a break.  I've been doing the same shit for almost 10 years now, to the point where I'm not "qualified" to do anything else.

I can't see the good things in life and I can't see anything getting better.  I feel so trapped in my head and my stupid fat ugly body.The only message the universe is conveying lately is that I'm an awful person and I don't deserve good things - this world owes me nothing and reminds me every day of just how obvious that is.

A friend wants me to go to a convention and my first thoughts are "there's going to be so many people staring at me, judging me, thinking I'm a loser, I'm going to freak out".  This is in my head no matter where I go.  Is everyone really looking at me?  No, likely not.  But my head keeps telling me they are.  And judging and staring and hating me for being so awful, such an ugly horrible person.

I want to hide and never come back.  I want to disappear and never have to look anyone in the face again because I'm so ashamed and guilt-ridden and depressed.  I'm tired of putting on a show - I'm tired of trying only to continually fail.  I'm tired of being last and left out and shoved aside and not even missed.

I put everything I had into having Coraline and she's gone.  I have nothing, and I can't escape from this pattern of thinking.

Closer to Far Away

I am now closer to the anniversary of Coraline's birth and death than to the actual date itself.  That is something that keeps cropping up and stabbing me in the gut at random times.

I remember telling Matt I didn't want the days to pass, because it just felt like I was moving further away from her.  It still does.  Every 24 hours and she fades a little, becomes more of a memory than reality, and it kills me inside.

At lunch with a friend when the subject came up.  He said he couldn't imagine going through anything like this, nor what the most difficult aspect might be.  For me, now, its getting other people to acknowledge and accept her as a real person, not "that thing that happened" or " that situation".  Was her stillbirth a traumatic "situation" for me and for Matt?  Of course, but Coraline was not.  She was perfect, and I hate that her birthday is the same as the day she died and that no one else was able to hold her and appreciate how beautiful she was and that I'm stuck in this ruined body with this tormented mind and shattered heart.

I really could give a flying Canadian goose fart about the "royal baby" and the hype surrounding it.  I'm glad whenever I hear of a happy, successful delivery, for any woman regardless of social status, but I don't want it shoved in my face repeatedly.  That just helps drive the nail in, the one that says "I didn't deserve to bring my baby girl home - they all got their healthy babies, but mine couldn't stay."

Sometimes I consider leaving.  Just driving in my car, working under the table - leaving everyone and everything I've ever loved behind, because I can't cope and their support isn't enough to sustain me.  I just want to run, but my problems will still be there wherever I land, I know.  I guess I'm doing the same thing, in a way.  I seek out new jobs, new opportunities, new schools to fill the gap.  Cut my hair to dull the nerves.  Shed weight and wear nice clothes and makeup so even though I feel dead inside, on the outside I can be pretty and non-suspicious and people won't ask why I look like someone died.  Rinse, repeat.

Sometimes the depression hits me full force and I can't breathe.  I've been trying to just let myself feel the emotions, flow with them wherever they take me.  Work through them instead of trying to shove them aside or compartmentalize them - okay, I feel this way right now, there must be a reason so I'm going to go with it.  My feelings aren't wrong, just painful.

Wreck-It Ralph

Wreck-It Ralph is very bittersweet for me.  It was the last movie we saw in the theater before learning we lost Coraline.  We took Parker to see it, and on the way out discussed our plans - next year, we'd dress Matt up as Ralph and Coraline as a mini-Vanellope, complete with candy in her hair.  Parker could be Fix-It Felix. And I'd take the pictures and document the adorable and we'd raise her on video games and science and nerdy things and we'd be the perfect complete geek family.

That will never happen.  I can't even look at that movie without wanting to cry.  It's weird the things that will trigger emotions.  I cry more watching Up, but Wreck-It Ralph is on the "do not touch" list - I probably will never watch it again.  It's the representation of all the plans and hopes I had, and how none of them are going to come true. 

I have to tune out the news when I hear about the latest celebutard having their "perfect precious bundle of joy".  It's making me a bitter person - I don't want to be, but I can't help feeling envious of their perfect lives with their perfect living children and their full complete happiness and their effortless success.  I'm stuck in my pathetic job making my low-range hourly rate, struggling every minute of every day, but I'm supposed to be happy for the privileged rich and famous expanding their genepool.  Eff that noise.

I feel like someone has grabbed the tendons to my heart that stretch through my clavicle to my shoulders - they pull and tug and play pinball with my fragile beating muscle, also cutting off my ability to inhale.  There's a tug of war going on everyday inside my chest and most days I'm losing. 

*Sigh*.  Putting on my "I'm happy, you're happy, we're happy, everyone is hap-hap-happy" face to show the world again.  Wish me luck.

When does it end?

The frustration of feeling one way and constantly putting on the opposite face.  "I'm fine." "We're doing great, thanks."  "No, we don't need anything."  "I'm happy again."

Lies.  So many daily lies I tell and show people because I'm too damn ashamed/embarrassed to admit that I'm a beaten, broken shell of a person.  Smiling on the outside while inside I'm thinking "I wonder if the ceiling fan will support my weight?"  Watching my husband try to keep a happy face while I know he's so tired, so very very tired, of having the be "the strong one" all the time.

I told him the other day I'm just biding my time, running out the clock, waiting for my turn to be over.  I don't feel like this is living.  This is just floating and existing, but not living.  I go through the motions, I blend in with all the other productive and busy little ants, but I'm not here anymore.

Means of escape or distraction don't work.  They may for a little while, but eventually I'm right back to this.  And since life keeps finding new ways to shit on me while I'm down, it gets really really difficult to force myself back up.