For the first time in weeks I feel a little bit like myself again. Its probably been more like months but the few weeks have been especially challenging. My mental health has been on a steady decline since the summer came to a close and then I took a nose dive and crashed head first into rock bottom.
There was no one single incident that took place to push me over the edge. I’d been fighting to hold on for a while and my rope just grew so thin that it broke. I’ve been so tired. Just the simple daily stuff has even been too much. Folding laundry had been leading to meltdowns. Once 2 then 3 baskets became filled with clean clothes I’d sit and cry because there was no basket for the dirty stuff. My husband walked in one day and found me sitting on the couch with a towel in my hand, sobbing. I had gotten out of the shower and our 3 laundry hampers were filled with clean clothes so there was nowhere to put my towel or dirty clothes. Folding it felt so far beyond what I was mentally able to process. I thank God for my incredible husband who stepped in and took it over, while I sat there crying and holding on to the towel.
Eating. Drinking. Walking. Talking. Even breathing felt pointless.
And sleep. I don’t know how long I had been without sleep but I know I was into night 3 at least because my husband was working his 3rd 12 hour shift that night and I hadn’t been to bed at all during that stretch of time. I had been purposely avoiding food and water because in the back of my mind I was thinking that the weaker I could make my physical self … the more tired and worn out and deprived I could become … the faster my body would give up at the end.
I had every aspect of my death planned out. How I was going to do it, where I would be, what I would be wearing, precise timing of everything, who would find me, details about my funeral wishes were written down and placed in my wallet with my ID and other important cards, etc
What I didn’t take into consideration was how weak and worn out I actually was. And the apathy … I didn’t care. I was completely shut down. I had been experiencing waves of emotion in between the numbness but for 3 days straight I was a zombie. I just gave up caring.
So those things paired with all the despair and brokeness I had been feeling resulted in a week long stay on the intensive care unit then a transfer to a different hospital an hour away, which is the only place that has a psychiatric inpatient unit in our district. And that’s where I’ve been for the past few weeks.
Being in the hospital is a challenge all by itself. But today I ventured out of my room and wandered into the main lounge where several staff members were putting up the Christmas tree. A security guard came with a guitar and began singing. After a while I joined in and for the first time since my Nan’s funeral 2 years ago, I sang in front of a group of people.
Today, I feel hope.
Her Complex Musings 