I’m Crazy Enough to Call My Mother But I Still Don’t Know Why I’m Here
Yes, I actually called my mentally ill, undiagnosed, “nothing-is-wrong-with-me” mother from hospital. Although, I did call her from Hospitalization #6. I might have called her from #7 but it was too brief and traumatic–THEY caused me more trauma by kicking me out after four days–more trauma and crisis than I had walking in. You can read about both under my Hospitalizations Category.
So, at least I had some practice, there. She’s also been “behaving” well over the last few years. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I feel she’s some sort of unruly child, I’m an evil parent and thus, great discipline must be enforced in the home. Wait a sec’… Never mind.
I still haven’t surrendered my mobile phone to the Nurses’ Station as I should (Rebel Patient PA) but my nurses have all been cool. Mommy called me late last night when I was trying to go to sleep. Which was okay. Because I couldn’t fall asleep anyway.
I wanted to call her (despite the fact we/I have Internet access) because we have been having regular email contact. Now that is CRAZY!!! We only tend to talk over Christmas and birthdays. Therefore, I didn’t want her flipping out as she did before (by siccing Emergency Services on me.) Oh, the irony of that! I’m already here Mommy!
So, yeah. I’m here Mommy. Here are the deets. She offered to visit if I wanted. I don’t think so! They’d probably make her my fucking roommate! Out comes the bed sheet noose! That would be for me.
Has such regular contact tossed me over the edge enough to be here? Been one of the things? There is surely not just one reason I am here. And of course, you all should know, it’s serious business for me to actually start packing a bag and call Emergency Services. I’m all or nothing! I’ll either sit and determinedly handle it all by myself or I’ll somehow end up in hospital! The latter rarely happening even though eight hospitalizations is a pretty decent record.
Why am I here? How did I get here? Within 12 hours of calling Emergency Services, I was “fine.” I was still working on getting my life back on track. Now, all I can do is stop from randomly bursting into tears. Or not so randomly if a certain word is said.
I want to fucking go home! I don’t have fucking time for this! I hate being here! It hurts! *screams while crying*
Things are moving too fast. I feel like a prisoner, even though I know I can walk out anytime. I think? Unless they put me on a hold even though I did walk in voluntary.
I’m being transferred to another floor just for women. Women who have lots and lots of PTSD! On that floor there will be lots and lots of interaction! I’m typing fast as I’m being transferred in a half hour! FUUUUCCCCKKKK!!!
I don’t want to talk to strangers! Every time I start talking about what’s going on I cry! Fuck off! I don’t want your stupid therapy! *screams while crying*
NOTE: I didn’t actually scream aloud. I didn’t actually speak about going to the floor aloud. As in, answer if I wanted to go. I can’t even remember if the woman asked. I think she did. I only just got my morning meds now and it’s lunch. I can’t think, but would my meds matter? Well, going off them entirely wouldn’t be so good. Getting them into me so late probably isn’t so good.
I still don’t know why I’m here.