Documenting my journey through the mental health system

After a couple weeks of seeing Dr Black, I was starting to shut down and sink deeper and deeper into relentless depression and despair. My PHQ and GAD scores couldn’t get any worse. I was calling off work a lot, unable to face anyone or function within the limits of the job description. I made a determination to kill myself with the exhaust from my car. If I had a gun I would have shot myself in the head but I’d lost my gun rights when I was first detained in 2014.

I admitted these plans to Dr Black.

“What kind of car do you drive?” She turned to her computer and typed in the make, model, and year – a 2013 Honda CRV, originally purchased in 2019.

“Your car is too new, with newer technology to promote good gas mileage. The exhaust would not kill you.”

My face must have fallen because she asked gently, “is that disappointing to you?”

“Yeah,” I said, barely above a whisper.

We went over safety planning again. It all seemed so pointless and stupid but I did manage to commit to one more week, and showed up to her office again. I let her read part of my journal. She wanted me to read it out loud but I couldn’t. So she read it out loud. It’s kind of cringey now but I was writing about how wretched I felt, what the voice in my head kept telling me to do (die) and how I looked like shit too. I kinda let myself go when I get depressed and decompensate, I think this is common for a lot of people when they go through that dark hell.

I had violated the safety plan without realizing it. One of my preparatory acts was seeing a lawyer to draw up TODD paperwork – a Transfer on Death Deed, that ensures property or other valuable items go to designated heirs in the event of death. A TODD avoids all the hassle of probate. I have two properties. I designated my first house to go to my mother, and my rental property to go to my brother and his wife and kids. The safety plan forbade me from meeting with the lawyer but I kept the appointment instead of canceling or just blowing it off. I paid 1500 dollars in lawyer fees for these documents. It was the last thing I needed to do. Anyone dealing with my body could just dump me in the local veterans cemetery and call it a day.

I casually mentioned that I kept the appointment toward the end of our session. I forgot about it in the safety plan or just chose to ignore it, I’m not sure. Dr Black was careful to hide her alarm and cajoled me to go into the psych unit. I said no. She asked if I could commit to coming back in a week. By this time, I’d been seeing her about three weeks. I nodded numbly, said I’d be back. I wanted to shoot myself, but I’m also a man of my word. I like to think I would have kept my word but I’m honestly not sure. Sometimes suicide is an exercise in opportunity and impulse – we see an opening, a chance, and go for it.

So she let me go that day. Later I was driving around, not wanting to go home, and she called me. I answered and she said she had discussed my situation with her supervisor and because of the safety plan violation, both decided I needed to come in and be evaluated for an inpatient stay in the psych unit.

“I know you’re gonna be mad at me and we can deal with that later, but right now I need you to come in.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I don’t have any choice but to call and request a welfare check from law enforcement.”

“Oh goddammit,” I muttered.

I am very frightened of police. I don’t hate them, I don’t think they’re evil or bad people. I’ve just had interactions with them during the most difficult and traumatizing parts of my life and they trigger me now. The sight of a cop with his gun and badge and uniform sends me back to terrible places, with terrible sounds and sights seared onto my brain forever. Just driving by a cop car makes my heart skip a beat or two. It feels like they know me, are watching me, sometimes.

“Can I at least have an hour and throw some shit in a bag?” I asked, exasperated and scared.

“One hour,” she said firmly.

So I went home and packed up a couple things – some clothes that they wouldn’t actually let me wear, and some of my own hygiene items. I brought my journal too but they gave me one because mine has a hardback and those aren’t allowed. I reported to her office as instructed, feeling embarrassed and anxious.

She took me down to urgent care, our version of an ER, and I was stripped, poked with needles, asked questions, and tagged with a hospital bracelet. A social worker came to see me while I was down there, and I told him I have no purpose whatsoever. I just exist and there’s no reason for it, no future worth sticking around for. It seemed like I made him sad, as though I was a depression leper that could infect everyone around me with my toxic bullshit.

I was eventually taken up to the psych unit and my belongings were checked and packed away and my hygiene items put in a hygiene bucket and I collapsed in the bed with its anti-suicide blanket and pillow. An interesting thing about the VA psych unit is all beds are outfitted with anti-suicide blankets and pillows. Everyone is on suicide watch by default. I laid there and cried myself to sleep.