Another hospitalization under my belt. Suicidal ideation reared its head. For the fourth time in a fifteen-month span, it beckoned. This time, I managed to avoid the clique-ishness of the staff at the one hospital and the vulgarity of another.
The unit was twenty beds. They check on you every fifteen minutes, without fail. It’s customary now to remove all patient bathroom doors on psych units. There’s a scant curtain in its place, so you’re left with essentially no privacy. If you’re unfortunate enough to need to be placed on a one-to-one safety precaution, the staff needs to watch you as you use the toilet. Sleep, the ever-elusive necessity for healing? Practically nil, for me.
I managed to pull myself together fairly quickly this trip. One week as opposed to two and even three. However, I did myself a grave disservice by insisting on being discharged before fully detoxing from the noxious antidepressant meant for titration. I simply longed for home.
I left the unit, being only partially detoxed; was sent home without any Effexor because NOW, I am on a new antidepressant. Had every withdrawal symptom imaginable, when I googled “side effects of detoxification from Effexor XR. ” Actually, the only good thing, was that I was spared the vomiting. Thank God for small favors.
As a result, I wound up driving to the local hospital’s emergency room the day after discharge. The withdrawal had become unbearable. The fact that I am able to drive myself to these places boggles the mind.
If an experience at an E.R. can be described as fulfilling, this was it. Walked out of there a new man. The I.V. fluids laced with the heavenly nausea drugs did the trick.
Speaking of feeling a new man brings me to the bottom line. What’s been going on with my transition (I could say virtually nothing) is once again a trigger for my “Passive Death Wish.” It’s a condition, I’ll call it, where I don’t really want to go through the messiness of a suicide; I simply yearn to be gone of this earth.
There are other triggers, to be certain, yet none more formidable than the fact that I cannot medically transition. If I allow myself to focus on this, I can’t go anywhere but south with it.
I will continue with my weekly visits to E, my lifesaver of a psychologist, and continue to be med-compliant. And hope and pray for a deliverance, of sorts. I turn to, and value beyond mere words, all of the supportive people in my life and to Tommy Boy, the boy who has been glued to me since my arrival home. The kitty with heart. My UU church fellowship family has been a sturdy anchor in these waves of depression. Blessings all the way around.
It’s three in the morning now. Thundering, off in the distance, gives way to a shock of lightning here and there. A steady stream of rain falling. The geraniums welcome their early morning respite. The storm has arrived; showers insistently pound as though they’d make their way inside. Comforting in its own right.
“And the thunder rolls…”