Who Knows wrote:Can you post it here?
Why not? It's already out for the world to see on RfM....might as well save it here (since it'll go down the tube over on RfM in a few days). Here it is:
The Artist known as substrate/Runtu wrote:I think I've mentioned here that I take medication for depression. The last couple of months I had been on a slow decline, as my body seems to have become accustomed to the medication. I went to Utah a couple of weeks ago for a job interview, and while I was there I had lunch with some exmos and had a great time. Somehow my wife discovered some of my recent posts on mo-related message boards and found out about the lunch I had gone to. Needless to say, she went ballistic. On Monday last week, as I was waiting in line at the Salt Lake airport, she called and was really angry, telling me she had discovered what I had been hiding from her. When I got home things got worse, and I got more and
more depressed.
Last Thursday I hit bottom. My wife was barely speaking to me and went and talked to the bishop. Apparently she told him that I'm addicted to the internet, including pornography. I was already very depressed, and I finally hit bottom that night after she went to sleep. I still can't
believe it happened, but I was so depressed I tried to kill myself. But I stopped myself because I realized I didn't want to die. I think I just wanted to stop feeling so bad. So I just went to bed.
Anyway, the next morning I went to work and got a few things done first thing, but I couldn't concentrate. So I decided to walk down the street to the grocery store and get a coke and clear my head. My wife called me, and I told her what I had done. She said, "I'm coming to Houston to take you to a doctor." I told her not to because I had a meeting (that sounds so stupid now). I went home and convinced her that I was no longer suicidal.
The next day (Saturday) I told her that if it hadn't hurt, I probably would have gone through with it. So she asked me to go to the ER, which I did. I explained to the doctor and the psych evaluator that I wasn't suicidal anymore, but the psych person (a grumpy twenty-something girl who smelled like cigarettes) said she thought I should check in to a hospital. We were there from 3 until 10 p.m., and finally a uniformed deputy came in with a warrant for me to be involuntarily put in the hospital. My wife swears they didn't ask her about it, and when she was with me she told them I didn't need to go to a hospital.
So I was put in the back of a police car and driven down to a psychiatric hospital in Houston. They put me in the unit for people who are considered a threat to themselves or others. I shared a room with a scary-looking gangster-looking kid. In the room there were two wooden box-like platforms with mattresses on top. No closet, no drawers. The people who work there treated me like I wasn't a person. I would go up to the desk and ask for something (a change of clothes or some soap) and they wouldn't even look up from what they were doing or acknowledge my existence. I had nothing to do, nothing to read, no TV, nothing. I was bored out of my mind.
A psychiatrist came in Sunday morning and told me that he didn't think I needed to be in the hospital, and I certainly didn't need to be in the PICU (psychiatric intensive care). He was upset that they got an involuntary order because he said he couldn't send me home until I had been there 72 hours. He said I just needed a change in medication and some outpatient therapy. He put in an order for me to be moved to the general psych unit and to be seen immediately by the staff therapist. But nothing happened that day. I wasn't moved, and I didn't talk to anyone except the nurse, who asked me if I was having thoughts of hurting myself or anyone else. I literally had nothing to do but sit and stare at the ceiling all day Sunday.
There were a few other people in there. The scary kid I shared my room with. A nice guy who is a guard at the county jail whose bipolar meds made him a little nuts. An angry guy who was trying to get into substance abuse treatment but instead found himself on the way to being committed to the state mental hospital. And a young kid who shuffled around and said nothing at all, though Sunday morning he went up behind the cleaning woman and hugged her, making her scream bloody murder.
My wife came Sunday evening during visiting hours and brought me some books and some clean clothes. I asked them three times while she was there to go out to the front desk and get my stuff so I could shower and change clothes, but they blew me off. The guy finally got my bag just before 7 and then said he couldn't give it to me because it hadn't been inventoried and since the shift was changing, he didn't have time. His replacement said she'd get to it eventually but didn't. So I spent the night in the same clothes, though I at least took a shower.
Monday was a repeat. Nothing to do. I didn't talk to the therapist, and I wasn't moved. The doctor came by early in the afternoon and was pissed that I hadn't been moved. He was the only person there who acted like he cared at all about what happened to me. That evening my wife came and was really mad that I hadn't been moved and hadn't seen the therapist and still didn't have my clothes (even though I had been asking all day). The people there completely blew her off, which if you know my wife you know not to do that. The problem if you're a patient is that they can blow you off, and they know you can't do anything about it. But she raised a stink until they moved me up to the less-restricted unit and made sure they gave me my clothes (they acted like they had no idea I hadn't gotten my clothes yet). I was just settling into the new room when a therapist came in to talk to me. She said, "I don't know who did what, but I was told by the CEO of the hospital to come and talk to you." So I talked to her for about an hour, which was a good thing.
My wife tried to get me discharged that night, but the on-call doctor hadn't seen me, so he wouldn't agree to it. She was generally pissed off about how I was treated there. It was good to know she was fighting to get me out.
Tuesday I learned why I had a yellow wristband on and other people had a green one. Yellow meant that you were a danger to yourself or others, so you were restricted. You couldn't leave the unit, meaning that you couldn't go to the cafeteria but had your meals brought in on a tray and that you couldn't go outside for breaks or to the gym for exercise. One lady asked the activities guy, "Does the gym have weights?" "No." "Does it have a treadmill?" "No." "Does it have any exercise equipment?" "No." "Then why do they call it a gym?" I got my green wristband Tuesday morning, which felt like this major milestone.
I went to group therapy Tuesday morning and learned that other people were in much worse shape than I was. Kind of put things into perspective when I heard how bad some people's lives are. More than one said they wanted to stay in the hospital because it was better in there than at home or because they had no place to go when they got out. I finally got to shave on Tuesday morning, which felt good.
My wife came at 2:00 or so, and then we sat around for an hour and a half waiting for them to get my bag and fill out some papers. I walked out of there around 3:30 and felt like I was alive again. If nothing else, I never want to be in a place like that again. I got home Tuesday night, and I think everyone was glad to have me home. The next I spent most of the day painting walls and trim in the house. I would much rather do that than stare at the ceiling in a hospital.
Wow, that was long-winded. I took notes in the hospital because I figured this experience might work as a couple of chapters in a book. :-) But I am doing fine now. The pills seem to be working, and I feel like I am going to get through this. And I accepted the job in Utah.
"Whatever appears to be against the Book of Mormon is going to be overturned at some time in the future. So we can be pretty open minded."-charity 3/7/07