You didn't think I would actually use "FUCK THIS SHIT" in the headline, eh? I wanted to, but it might not get shared as much by people who are slightly more careful with language than me.
During my second day in the ward, after I saw the psychiatrist who seemed quite ineffectual and a little annoyed whenever I kept correcting and clarifying and asking him to repeat himself, I realized that I was not getting what I thought I was getting when I agreed to go inpatient.
I was wasting time with fluffy therapy when I could be getting things in order, start coordinating my care and contacting places and getting on wait lists as needed.
I needed to get out of there.
My social worker met with me shortly after and I told her all of this--how I felt like I was lied to, how I was not getting what I thought I was going to be getting, and how I needed to get out because I had some things already kind of waiting to get going and I would much much rather spend Wednesday making calls and emails and doing visits. After all, I had already arranged an IOP intake with a different place on Wednesday morning I would rather be doing than sitting around talking about our goals for the day. I started crying because I felt trapped. It was just a low security prison.
I called my husband, my therapist, my psychiatrist. My husband called my psychiatrist. I wanted to get out. I could try to leave AMA, but my husband said sometimes insurance won't pay, and we definitely couldn't afford that. So, I wanted to change the medical advice.
By the time I told the social worker all this and asked if I could go ahead and leave today instead of tomorrow, she said the psychiatrist already left. He's the only one who could let me go.
C'mon, there must be another way to get out of here. I wanted them to page the psychiatrist, but I kinda wondered if he might get cranky and say that this is evidence I needed to stay longer.
I tried to see if I could get out to at least do the IOP Wednesday morning.
No go. She was able to reschedule it for Thursday morning at least, but FUCK THIS SHIT.
I was trapped. Another day. The social worker did give me some DBT reading material. I met with the hospital's IOP coordinator, the one who said intake was in the ER, and I was polite, but firmly declined to schedule any IOP assessments with them. For obvious reasons.
It was getting late, and close to dinner, and they wouldn't let me crochet just yet because they were busy.
Yes, crochet. String, the contraband item. The nurses were kind (they were always kind) enough to give me permission to crochet in the hallway under general supervision because it is a therapeutic activity--but I had to request it when they weren't busy with shift changes or other things. And they were busy.
This is the sort of anxiety that makes me want to scratch myself, but you know, there's no material for scratching, plus I prefer to sanitize my scratching material and my skin and anything that I might find wouldn't be sanitary.
So I found a pencil, paper, and drew this.
I wasn't sure they would let me actually spell out FUCK THIS SHIT, because I thought it would be a sign I needed to stay inpatient longer, so I decided to draw a pretty picture.
It was so subtle somehow that even my husband and a good friend who came to visit that night didn't realize what I'd drawn until I pointed it out to them.
But so, so cathartic.
And that night, I crocheted like mad in the hallway for hours, making incredible progress on a blankie--thank goodness the pattern I was doing didn't involve cutting the yarn constantly--you just leave it hanging on the side and pick it up when you come back.
I crocheted like crazy the next morning after breakfast. I asked the counselor for the number for Cathedral Counseling, which has a good DBT program, so I could follow up and get on the list. She was busy, and then I called my husband to get that number for me. I called them. And waited.
I went to a therapy group. Because I asked, they did some light DBT work.
It's funny, in therapy, when I said it was fluffy, it's because I've done so, so much therapy over the years and have such a wonderful therapist who actually explains what we're doing. I've also read tons and tons on these things. Been in support groups for children of narcissistic adults. So whenever the therapist asked, "So, what do you think this concept means?" and nobody answered and if they made eye contact with me and then asked me, I would explain, explain how it's related to other concepts, how it helps, what it does.
I kinda wonder if the counselor wanted me to shut up because I might be throwing off the groove of the group. I also wondered why I was also providing the therapy in this group.
Cathedral Counseling called me back and thank God I could leave group (they don't like to interrupt groups) so I could do the intake. I was in! It depends on the wait list which I have yet to find out, but it starts in November.
Meanwhile, I looked forward to my IOP Thursday morning. If they were good by my standards, then I could do IOP and then switch to DBT at the end of IOP and then after doing a DBT course I could see where I stood and then possibly be done.
Then I could be at a point where I was healed enough to properly mother myself, and mother my daughter.
The discharge took forever. FOREVER. I finally got out around 5pm. My husband treated me to dinner. I had panic attacks and the intrusive thoughts swirled around my brain--at least they weren't of hurting myself. They were of, "oh god that guy is leaning on the edge of the bridge maybe he's planning on jumping I hope he doesn't" (when he's only taking a selfie) or "oh god, my husband is checking to see if the train is coming I don't want him to fall on the tracks."
But. I was finally out. After two nights and three days inpatient.
Fuck that shit.
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