Hello. It’s been a minute since I have written. I apologize for my vacancy, but, trust me, it was well worth the time away. I spent most of the summer in hospitals. That is a whole other story. Truth be told, it began in April/May of this year, and ended in September. So half my year was spent in a hospital. I actually lost 35 pounds, only to gain it all back. Thank you steroid shots in my Osteonecrotic knees! But, I digress…
April and May, were spent in a mental hospital. I was discharged, then was re-admitted- for ECT. Yes, “shock therapy”. Electroconvulsive therapy. Don’t get all Cuckoo’s Nest on me. Although lately I have been wanting, “My cigarettes, Nurse Ratchett!!!” ECT is actually the gold standard for those people who suffer from treatment resistant depression. Which, I fucking qualify for, seeing as I had been suicidal since 2014. Which no one knew or could tell; people could suspect, and did, but no one ever asked me if I was okay. They saw me carrying on through life, as a normal person, albeit one with serious dents in her soul, but a person nonetheless. So, yeah. I had 11 sessions of bilateral ECT. Was in the hospital for like, 4 or 6 weeks. ECT gives you the sometime valuable gift of memory loss right before the treatments and directly during and even after. So, you combine that with the memory loss that accompanies DID, I’m lucky I remembered my passwords to accounts due to severe memory loss. But, I remembered who my tribe was, and that is really all that matters, I guess.
So, July 11th, 2016. Crap day. Why? I had enough. I had ECT brain, recalibrate med brain and stress brain. I had kept going, kept dusting myself off, getting up again, begin to walk again only to be kicked in the teeth by someone or something again. July 11th, I’d had enough. See, the thing with ECT is this: You have to give it a chance to work. The shock from the electricity floods your brain with neurotransmitters- good and bad. Until they recalibrate, even themselves out so to speak, don’t do a damn thing. I kept doing things, instead of being gentle with myself and healing. So, I attempted suicide. Feel free to read that over gain, as many times as necessary, cuz this is where it gets intense.
I took one of those ginormously, supersize bottles of a benzo, tossed some neuroleptics in there and threw a few Motrin in there to sleep. I wanted to die. Some people who attempt suicide don’t want to die, that is not their deep intention, they just crave relief. My pain was physical, mental, emotional and spiritual. The traumas had impacted every core, nook and cranny of my soul. There were some crevices affected as well. But, I had been on mental health road to recovery since 1999/2000. It was 2016. Shouldn’t I get a fucking reprieve sometime? I mean, it just kept getting worse! It never fucking ended. Being a grown up is not an easy task, but having emotional and psychological bullshit, Like, oh, I don’t know, finding out you were a sexual rag doll and sacrifice candidate at age 4, is a lil much. I had enough. And fuck anybody who says, “Depression is just anger turned inward.’ Okay, sparky, sometimes yeah. Self-pity can go a long way, but my depression is in my DNA and my psyche. My Major Depressive Disorder, Bipolar Depression, PTSD depression and DID Depression is more than anyone can bear for an extended point in time. I’d been carrying it for 16 years- OVER IT!!! DONE!! FUCK YOU!
People were too busy, or all they talked about was themselves and their problems, and? I let them. Because what, why? Who the fuck wants ro hear at age four I was forced to eat human flesh and that is why I can no longer eat Raw Salmon sushi? Who in the right zip code of normal wants to hear that? They’re just pissed at their man. Or stressed due to life. I have HIV, a serial killer for an ex, haven’t been laid in an eon because people are terrified to even kiss me, drink out of my glass. Forget kissing. Nope. Even though in the fucking 80’s/early 90’s it had been determined the HIV could NOT be transmitted through saliva. But whatever. The things I miss and don’t have are things other people take for granted and are a necessary part of being human. But whatever. You’re just crazy Zu. Get to a meeting. Get out of the house. Get out of your head. Well, you know what? Being outside with the human race is fucking scary. Y’all ever seen Rosemary’s Baby? That was my life. Fuck! That was my childhood. That shit is real. Who in the fuck wants to hear about that? Who in the fuck wants to hear about Dave? It’s not that easy to just let shit go, just let it go. I can’t. I know what damage and how evil and disgusting and terrifying humans can be. We are the worst specimens of depravity. We’re horrible. The evil men can accomplish. Plus, I’m mentally ill, so that discredits me right there. “Oh”, they say, “She’s just crazy”, or “She’s just having a bad day”. No, thank you very little, I’ve had a bad life. I finally asked my therapist if it was fair and not in the victim role, for me to say, fairly, “people have been excessively cruel to me.” Trust me, I know what damage man can do. Evil man, fucking some evil, hated shit.
And I get to keep that. That’s always in the back of my mind. When I got through Meijer- Oops! Yes, I live in the lovely mid/central west. Right in the buckle of the Northern Bible Belt. But, I look at people and think, “What’s their story?” “What evil has man done to them, or they to someone else?” There is no Stranger Danger. It’s your fucking neighbor, your coach, your minister, your teacher, the babysitter. Whoever has the closest access to you, is most likely to fuck your world up big time. Because they have access to you, they’re closer to you than anyone else. And they’re going to take advantage of it, and you.
But, July 11th. So I swallow a ton of pills, kiss the cat, and prepare for take off. I wake up in a hospital bed. With my infectious disease doctor at my bedside. I called her name, reached for her, then fell back. Next thing, I know, my HIV case manager is at the foot of my bed. Later, the next day, apparently, both my doctor and my case manager were at the foot of my bed. The next thing I know, my eye are fluttering and this handsome ass, bald, black man says, “let’s go”. I fall back into bed. I come to in a hospital bed in a hospital room. But it’s fucking LOUD!!!! I grab a phone, start calling people. Trying to piece together how in the fuck I wound up in this place, whatever the fuck this place was. I knew it was part of a hospital, but it wasn’t at the same time.
My voice was squeaky and gravelly. They had had to intibate me. I look down in my hospital gown, my left boob, over my heart, has a big, black/purple bruise on it. WTF, over?! I was paddled? What the Fuck is Going The Fuck on?!
In walks Brigid. My psych PA. Who the fuck are you, what the fuck is this place, what the fuck happened? Somebody, please tell me what the fuck is going on?! I felt like Chris Penn in Resevoir Dogs when shit goes down at the end of the movie. But, Brigid and her lackey- who was very sweet, began to tell me that they decimated my, “polypharmacy”, because she didn’t like it. They treated me like an addict. Like I had taken all the drugs because I OD for a high, not to close the curtain. I was told to go to IOP when I got out. I had to call Brighton Hospital and put my name on the bed list. In a month, and August 15th, because it was only like, July 18th, I celebrated 8 years of continuous sobriety. Yes, I thought I had relapsed. No. I didn’t. I used a medication after a surgery to relieve pain. It was prescribed for a legitimate medical emergency/reason, I did not abuse it, I did not sell it, I did not pawn my shit to go buy more or prostitute myself for more Oxy. I didn’t. I had been strung out on Oxy back from 2005-2007. I detoxed myself off the Oxy like any good addict/alkie would. With Benzos and more Booze. So I didn’t go into A-Fib. I survived, I kicked Oxy. But the fact that I was using it to deal, or not deal with my post surgical pain, scary the everloving fuck out of me. And I panicked.
Anyways, Brigid slashed my meds to nothing. Nothing for my psychosis, nothing for my nerves, nothing for sleep. I basically never slept during my whole stay in PsychLab. Yup, PsychLab. 6th floor of St. Mary’s Hospital. Psychiatric Jail. My mom had petitioned me. As well she should have, she was the one who fucking found me. Yup. Christmas came early for my mom, courtesy of me. Yeah. Not a proud moment at all. So, she petitioned me. Turns out, e’erybody up in PsychLab had been petitioned and had medical problems. So we were all nuts and physically ill. There was a dude there who had just left prison- where he spent most of his time in solitary- I forgot what it is called now. It’s not called solitary anymore, I think it is called Isolation or some such shit. But he was put in solitary, because in the main population, he would’ve been kilt. It was for his safety. To keep him alive and safe. Fo reals. Anyways, my roommate was an older woman named Claire. She was a Sundowner. She had early onset Alzheimer’s. The kind where you hallucinate. She had kept me up for several nights. I told Brigid she was in bad shape and she was a danger to herself and she didn’t belong there. But, I was just an addict. What the fuck did I know? So, one night, not long after I told em she was in trouble, she wakes up in the middle of the night and starts pulling the divider curtain down. Like she’s climbing. I’m hitting the fucking nurse button like my life depends on it. Three of em come busting in the room, catch her in the act of tearing the curtains down- thank sweet baby Jesus- and move her into a private room. Turns out there is a whole crew of Sundowners up there. There was no segregation, no special treatment. You were sick physically and mentally, and you had endangered yourself- or someone(s) else, and you get tossed into PsychLab. Or, as I called it- The isle of misfit nut jobs. That place was awful. Not that it is supposed to be the four seasons. Psych hospitals are not nice places. You would think, “Oh they need to heal and recuperate in a calm and healing/soothing atmosphere. So, let’s paint it green and cream and let em fend for themselves. The social worker was a see you next Tuesday as well. Didn’t want to hear about my continuous sobriety, or my PTSD or that I needed antipsychotics for my bipolar or PTSD or – forget DID. It didn’t exist there or any of the damn fucking shitholes I frequented after. Just wait. It gets better.
So, I saw my mom since I attempted. Me with Coma, ECT and fucking OD Brain does the brilliant thing of putting it on social media. I know, I know. Trust me, I know. But, she tells me I had been in a coma in Critical Care for four days- ICU- and there was a chance, a good one, that I would come out of the coma. I am so grateful I never finished my advance Directive, because I would not be writing this. I would cease to be. Looking back, I realize I had been planning on exiting the scene for some time. I made my mom my Legacy Contact for my Facebook account. Was giving away shit hand over fist. It was ridiculous. I had been planning this for at least a year. Made my world so small. I only talked to like, two people. Not including my therapist. I mean, I figured no one would notice. No one ever called, or emailed or text or IM me. So, I figure I had made myself so unremarkable, no one would notice. You know how shit never turns out the way we think it will? How our perception totally does not reflect reality? Yeah. I’ve been dealing with that. It’s September and my mom still has all my psych meds. And I fucking let her because I fucking fucked up. I screwed a big, ole pooch, big time. I pissed off and hurt so many people. I felt like dog shit. Lower than a snake’s nuts, I did. But PsychLab was interesting.
My new roommate after Claire was a straight up addict. I know I can’t say that, because I don’t know and we never talked, because she was passed out all the time. I mean, when you’re on Oxy, Norco and Valium, and you take all your blood pressure pills to attempt suicide, you’re in for some harsh fucking reality. And I wanted to beat this bitch’s ass, so fucking bad. She had a loving husband, who knew the pills were the problem, she had, like a couple of beautiful children, her husband was doting and devoted. Things I would fucking eat a heart for, and she’s pissing it away for synthetic heroin. Now, don’t get me wrong. She was beyond active in her addiction, she was fucking thriving in it. Because her disease of addiction was so entrenched and heavy, none of the other shit mattered. I had to save her one night from a predator. He saw her passed out on her belly. Started mumbling about something he, “wanted to Show her”, and left the room to go get whatever the fuck it was. Then, one of the Napalm Nurses- cuz the nursing staff there was tough as nails. They were some of the best fucking Nurses I have EVER had the privilege of working/being treated by. Those fucking Nurses. My God, with the crowd in there? They should all be awarded the highest nursing honors in their field. They were fucking tough. I called em the Napalm Nurses. If they liked you, which they liked me, the staff liked me, I liked the staff. The nurses and staff were good to you and for you. If you were a special flavor of fucked up, they could make your life a living hell. I saw em do it. The Internal Med doc was awesome. I mean the staff there are five-star, top shelf, all aces human beings. They were remarkable. My only bitch? They d/c ed me with only a seven day supply of meds- by the book according to the mental health code, but the problem was? I wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist for another 28 days. I had no benzos for my anxiety, no anti-psychotics for my PTSD and Bipolar. I hadn’t slept but four hours every other night being there. So, that was affecting my damn Bipolar. My stomach was coleslaw. I’m still taking prilosec. But, it was a cool, neat little floor. One of my friends tried to find me. She teaches a physical wellness class at the hospital. Her and the staff person couldn’t find me. I wasn’t even listed in the computer- I was totally cloaked, totally not even on the radar. Non existent. But, Dr. Krause was the fucking bomb.
My last day there? I had this fucking, piece of shit, MA come in to take my blood sugar. Now they have to poke my fucking finger to do this. He is gloved, protected above and beyond Universal Precautions, doesn’t touch me, throws, Yes. The fucking bastard threw the bandaid at me. Everyone else put it on me, but he fucking shoves it at me, I take it and he snatches his hand away. First of fucking all, I’m undetectable. What does that mean? I have less than 18 copies of the HIV Virus in my body, it is damn near scientifically and physically impossible for me to transmit HIV. So, unless we pulled a blood brothers thing, he was just a piece of shit. So I ratted on him. I told Dr. Krause, that little fucker’s HIV Etiquette sucks, he’s lawsuit material. If you don’t, somebody else will. I’m just telling you that whole five minute exchange between me and the MA was fucking degrading, humiliating, and completely disrespectful and unecessary. Dr. Krause was all over it. Bless that man. Dr. Bell was there too. He’s bat shit crazy. Dr. Frankenstein. I begged him to be sent home. I begged Brigid to be sent home. I couldn’t fix my life and get better in there. So NOT therapeutic. Everything I need to get better was outside the hospital. There was no AA in there. There was no sponsor. There was zero mental health care. I needed to get out so I could get on. Dig?
So, I was discharged July 28th. I saw my old shrink two days later. Didn’t sleep. My sleep has been erratic at best. I have insomnia now like a mother. So my shrink throws me into the View. I finafuckingly slept. I slept for 18 hours. 18 motherfucking hours. My roommate was a Schizoaffective anorexic with a factitious disorder of MCS. My mom cannot smell. Her olfactory was knocked out the she was a kid due to a fever. She’s asomic. So, this fucking bitch of a roommate claims my laundry smell is so overpowering, she was FORCED to stay up all night because it was affecting her “MCS”. She kept the whole wing up that night crying at her wailing wall with her fucking Bible asking God to help her, kill her, what the fuck ever. Amir comes in- another Napalm Nurse, but a kinder, gentler Napalm Nurse at the View, comes in to give me my blood sugar and pee cup. He says something about her (my roommate Stacy), and her, “shenanigans”. Now Amir is a Lebanese (Arab) sexy young thing from the Bronx. So try to imagine an Arab dialect combined with the Bronx, combined with a midwest dialect and you have Amir. Or Amiree, as I called him. Which is arabic for, “My Amir”. You put the ya after a name, and it means mine. It’s like the word Habibi- which means my love et al. Term of endearment. Anyways, Stacy was in the bathroom and Amir, in his dialect blasts out shenanigans I’m silently screaming and pointing to the bathroom. He says, “Ah well, Fuck it”. This is why I love Amir. And Lord would I love to love me some Amir. But I was in the View from the 30th (Friday?!) to Monday. I used my last free standing, private hospital Medicare days at the view. I will miss the people, the staff, the trauma program, Dr. Ross, the lunch ladies, who knew I was leaving and could never come back unless I married someone with fucking titties and beer mental health insurance and a phat paycheck, made, on my truly, last day there, no bake chocolate cookies for me. I mean, From tough love PsychLab, to soft, gentle place to fall, Forest View. I mean, man. I’m going to miss them and that place and all the healing I did there. I was diagnosed with DID there in August of 2008 by Dr. Ross. 89 parts down to 4 parts in 8 years. Suck on that!
But, Stacy was bitching about my laundry and blah blah. I rolled over, pointed at her, and barked, “You bust on my mama’s laundry, I’m gonna bust on you! We clear?” rolled back over and told myself she wasn’t worth going back to the eighth ring of hell for trauma patients, PsychLab. Or prison, because I wasn’t the only one who wanted to beat her ass. And I’ll be even more brutally honest- I haven’t wanted to kick someone’s ass since I went to jail in 99 for a domestic. And I beat him down too. Pierce of shit. But anyways. I’m freaking out because it’s three grand a day at the view without insurance. It’s fucking expensive. I don’t have the money. My folks don’t have the money. My doc wants me to stay another day. I was in such a state of panic, he literally said he would pay for my stay if I had a bill. He was going to make sure I didn’t have a bill and was making sure I was in good physical and mental health. He used to be an Internal Med doc. He gets it. Apparently, I wasn’t the first patient for him to afford that much generosity to. He does that from time to time if people need care and cannot afford to stay. He’s a fucking top shelf, awesome, stand up guy. He’s my Iranian father figure. Love him. Cancelled the other shrink. Fuck him. Seven days worth of meds. I’m Dual Diagnosis/ Co-Occurring Disordered. I’m nuts and an addict. Get with the program. I have to work mental health and substance abuse recovery programs. I have to be vigilant with both or I’m completely fucked!!! Completely. But, whatever. So I get out of there on Monday the 30th to start Partial Hospital on Tuesday.
This is where I end. So much has happened, one blog ain’t going to cut it. I really wanted to explain the whole PsychLab experience in further detail, but my computer has been down, it got a virus and crashed and I had to replace it just this week. My laptop is also MIA. So, I have been technology deprived. I had my phone, but can you imagine me typing all this on a smartphone? HELL NA. So, I have to get ready for my women’s meeting, spell and grammar check this, and be there by 7:15 am. It’s 5:29 am. EST. So, yeah. There will be another few installments. Shit has been popping, trust me. This is the tip of the iceberg, fo reals.
So, on that note…