hospital
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During my second week in the hospital, I finally called my mother. What a disaster. I had been stabilizing pretty well on medication changes and Dr Floura’s careful dialing in of the right doses and times. I had learned a lot about myself and that this depression was largely existential in nature, exacerbated by my…
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“How are you doing?” “I’m good, I’m good. I called my brother; I need his help. I can’t do it alone anymore. I don’t know what I’m going to do about my living situation. I want to move out. I think I’ll move out.” “How about the meds, any side effects?” “Just from that artane…
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As I started to stabilize just slightly, inching a little closer toward cautious optimism, I had a terrible reaction to a medication that was supposed to help me with extrapyramidal symptoms. What follows is some of my writings while psychotic. I don’t remember writing any of it.
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My first few days in the hospital passed in a blur, a fog of medication adjustments, sluggish pacing, and intermittent crying. I felt most suicidal, yet safe. At least that’s what I reported in my daily nursing assessments. It’s a strange juxtaposition of feeling – that given the chance, I would kill myself, yet in…
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I still remember quite clearly my first morning in the hospital. I woke up after restless, fitful sleep, in which I was frequently startled awake by room checks. I just wanted coffee, so I went to the dining room. The kitchen would bring a large carafe of coffee in the mornings and it would be…
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Last fall, almost a year ago exactly, I started hearing voices again. Started to decompensate again. A female voice was telling me to do things, in particular, kill myself. Showed me the 10 dimensions and told me at length about them, where I would go, that only death would free me. I posted previously some…
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My first week in the hospital, a living nightmare, had passed. On day seven I felt so groggy, so heavy and sedated, I barely noticed when they came for vitals at 6am. The doctor came to see me first thing. “How are you feeling?” “Shitty,” I could barely mumble. I kept my eyes closed. “Dirty?”…
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“Please, don’t make me take seroquel anymore, the RLS is unbearable. Please,” I begged the doctor on my sixth day, plagued with jerking and twisting legs all night, kicking, moaning, and walking around my room in anxious desperation. Room checks, where I was offered more PRNs, startled me every 15 minutes. “Okay…okay,” the doctor said…
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My fourth, maybe fifth, day in the hospital came. The meds had slowed me down significantly. I was pacing less, groggy and sedated. I suppose that was the goal, get me to slow down a little. I was hearing the voice less but he did still pop into my head to remind me I was…
Documenting my journey through the mental health system 