I know I don't blog often, hardly ever. But I feel like this is a nice way of journaling and getting things out in the open.
As many of you know, I recently found myself at a crossroads in terms of what to believe in. Having been a devout, life-long member of the mormon church, I had always had "the answers". I knew how to solve every problem, and I knew God would take care of everything.
Now, I am not sure what I believe in. I am still trying to figure that out. But, I began feeling "burnt out" near the beginning of the year. Everyone fighting over politics, corporations controlling everything, people only care about money (even in healthcare!). It seems that the only thing that matters to anyone is
M O N E Y.
I work with a unique ambulance company that does not work off the 911 system. Rather, we respond to emergencies at homeless shelters, detox centers, psychiatric facilities, jails, and some random ass assisted living facilities every once in a while. We also do a lot of transports from one facility to another. Consequently, we encounter a lot of alcoholics, drug addicts, homeless people, and inmates. Many people with mental illness get shuffled around from place to place, and then are eventually kicked out and live on the streets. They get clean, but then have nowhere to go. They turn back to drugs as a result. Then the cycle starts over.
I get very sad thinking of all the people that I cannot help, and instead of taking care if myself outside of work, I am always on the go. I either have homework or house work to take care of and never take time for me. A couple weeks ago, I was working and had a mental breakdown. I almost began crying from frustration while we were dropping a patient off at a hospital. Once we got outside, I could not hold in my tears.
"What is the point of life? No body gives a fuck about anyone else. I am sad and angry and feel like that will never change. Not to mention, I am exhausted 6/7 days of the week (thanks a lot mystery illness). The healthcare system is broken. The mental health system is broken. Everything is broken and no one can do anything unless they have lots of money. God isn't going to take care of these people, like I once thought."
I already take anti depressants, I have seen a therapist for Y E A R S. I see a psychiatrist. I didn't know what else to do. I thought, "Maybe I need to go to an inpatient psychiatric facility," I thought. I texted my supervisor and she said she was actually thinking the same thing. So, her angel self called around and found me a bed at a facility. I called Andy and he came and picked me up from work. I was so scared to go to this place, I cried the whole way there.
I could only bring certain things with me, and they made me take out my piercings (RIP nose ring. You will one day return.) I couldn't have my deodorant, conditioner, or any notebooks with metal coils. Andy could stay with me during the intake process, which was very comforting. But when he had to leave, my heart dropped to my stomach. I sobbed while the tech took me to my unit. I sat in a chair looking, like a scared rat, while everyone else on the unit lined up for their smoke break. Some people tried talking to me but I did not want them to. I just knew I would miss my dogs, my husband and my house. I also knew I was stuck there until my team felt it was okay to let me go home. I was led to a bathroom where I stood, almost naked, in front of 2 nurses while they checked me for injuries, tattoos, bruises, etc. I then laid down on my weird bed, my head on my 2 dimensional pillow, and cried myself to sleep.
I was abruptly woken up for my vitals to be taken, and then fell back asleep. I felt like a train had ran over me, backed up over me, the conductor got out to see what he hit, he didn't see me as I had been directly under the train, and then ran me over one last time as he continued on over the horizon. Somehow, I was still in this prison. I was awakened again to get my blood drawn. Then once again for breakfast. I couldn't brush my teeth before breakfast because they keep our hygiene stuff in a bucket locked in a room. My breath smelled terrible, and I looked even worse. I ate the breakfast, and we went back to our unit. I was finally able to take a shower. I had to press the faucet every 30 seconds to keep the water on, and I could not shut the door all the way. My deodorant was in a packet that I had to squeeze onto my hand and rub on my armpits. Every patient in the facility smelled like death due to the poor quality packet squish gel we were expected to put under our arms every day. I really wanted to stay in bed all day long and cry, but I knew I had to get out of there. I had a paper to write, and other schoolwork. I could not do it while I was in the facility.
I went to the group activities. There was a lot of talk about drug and alcohol abuse, and how a person can resist the urge to use again. "I don't belong here. What the heck is this? I am not an addict. I am not one of these people." I participated in my groups and kept to myself the first day. I called Andy and cried to him, telling him how alone I felt and how angry I was that I went there. I felt like an idiot for admitting myself to this place. I felt like I would never get out.
I started talking to people on my unit and making friends. I realized that there is so much more that goes into addiction than the choice to try a certain drug or drink. A lot of them had the same problems I do, they just use drugs to cope. Some of my unit-mates had horrible childhoods, and it hurt my soul. One of them had overdosed nine times last year. Nine. Times. Some explained that once they get sober, their depression and anxiety come back full force and they can't handle it. They turn back to drugs or alcohol to stop feeling. Some went to war, and came back with broken bodies and broken lives. Drugs were there for them and they turned to drugs. Being numb was better than feeling pain, but what kind of life has no feeling? Feeling is what we need. I learned that feeling pain and sadness is better than feeling nothing because as a result, I can feel happiness, joy, and peace. I felt like I could better understand others just by listening to their stories. Today, people are so worried about sharing their perfect moments, they don't share their STORY. Your story is what makes you YOU. So much anger and hate would be dissolved if we could all hear each other's stories.
I started to not hate being there. I learned a lot. I feel like I am better than I was before I went in. Ultimately I was there for 4 days. I came home and took off a week so I could reset and adjust. I knew I need to start taking care of myself. Boundaries would be beneficial. Rest is not lazy. Small amounts of exercise can go a great way. No food is "bad" or "good". And, I can challenge the negative thoughts that pop into my head. It was good for me to go to the psych hospital. I am not ashamed to say it....actually, I am probably shitting my pants as you read because I actually posted this. Why is it that if I broke my leg and had to go to the hospital, I could say it without thinking twice? But I have great anxiety discussing my experience at the mental health hospital.
Please, take care of yourself. You matter.
