Sometime after lunch I was trying to read in my room when I heard another patient get a phone call. This happened all the time as the phones were outside my room. He was someone who'd come in after me, was not that sick, and really I think was admitted because he needed meds that worked established. So it's not like it was a bit surprise that he was getting better.
But all it took was hearing him say he felt a little better and I lost it, totally.
I started crying, which at first I didn't pay attention to because I'd been crying a lot. Not only was I dealing with severe depression I was going through a lot of biochemical changes from coming off the one med, and probably starting more from the new med.
But then I couldn't stop crying. The tech came past doing rounds, saw me crying and asked if I wanted to hear a joke. Lesson one if you want to work with psych patients: a joke is not going to distract someone who is crying so hard she can't breathe. I cried and cried, thinking he would get a nurse. After a while I realized he wasn't, so I wandered the halls sobbing looking for someone, even him, who could let them know I was in trouble. I couldn't find anyone. I think they were involved in another person's discharge and maybe on break. So I cried for another 30-45 minutes before I heard a nurse's voice. I knocked on the nursing station door and told her I couldn't stop crying.
At that point I'd had it, and I curled up in bed to sob. The nurse came in and told me I couldn't have more ativan so she'd paged the doctor for something else or an emergency dose. It took another 30 minutes before they had that med. I took it and then they let me sleep for a long time.
During those hours is when things were so scary that I'm dealing with trauma from them. I've felt suicidal before. It goes with the territory. I also have a lot of coping techniques developed over the years that have convinced me I was pretty safe. I was wrong. I never considered the impulsivity factor. If I had been able to hurt myself that day I would have. There is no question because I remember sobbing for quite a while over knowing I had nothing harmful anywhere near me. Learning that when I'm being treated as a suicide risk it is for an actual reason and not just to look good on paper was a terrible shock. Enough of a shock I apologized yesterday to Dr. Mind for fighting him so hard for so many years because what I thought I knew about this wasn't the whole story.
I went back to being on 15 minute checks. Not that they tell you, but it's fairly obvious when someone carries a notebook past you over and over making a notation.
After I woke up I had a headache from crying, so I took some tylenol. I then spent the rest of the evening dazed. I only talked if forced to. I was forced to particpate in the last group. I have no idea what it was or what I had to participate in, because I don't remember it and that's what my notes say, but I'm fairly sure that it was the nurse I hated, who printed off stuff from the internet and then read it to us (badly).
That night I started the increased Seroquel dose, and combined with everything else I think I slept a bit better. Which was the only good thing of that day.
I also learned that next time I'm in the hospital I want them to have an order for an injection of something, because I don't ever want to feel that worked up and then have to wait for more meds to come. I'd kind of assumed that was a typical thing, but it wasn't and not having that option led to quite a big more trauma.
I read this and there is just no way it is explaining the terror and panic of that day.