I'm not certain whether anyone wants to hear a comeback story or not but here goes.
Eight days ago, I came closer to death than any of my past attempts. I stood on the curb of a busy thoroughfare waiting for the biggest fastest truck I could jump in front of. There were several starts and stops. I was jumping in place; preparing for self-deliverance. I saw the right moment approaching. An enormous moving truck barreling toward me. I actually giggled knowing this was it. I checked the nearest traffic light; it had just turned green. The driver was not going to slow down. I took a step back and made to propel myself forward. Both of my feel left the ground. I felt relief knowing that finally the pain would stop. I was jolted backwards. Someone behind me had a vice grip on my hoodie. I laid there on the ground, cursing the fellow who had saved me. I was screaming and sobbing and convulsing with the astonishment of my failure. I couldn't see, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't hear what everyone was saying to me. After a moment the man who yanked me from my intentions pulled me up and held me as I continued to sob. He held me until emergency services arrived. As I was placed in the back of the ambulance the man called out, "There are people you don't know who love you." Needless to say, that sent me into another meltdown. Only this time it wasn't fear or pain. It was the unfamiliar glimmer of hope.
The first two days in the behavioral hospital was sheer unbridled hell. After more than a year of self-imposed isolation, I was thrust into a small unit with fifteen other people. Meltdown after meltdown. I kept purging everything I tried to swallow. I was sobbing hysterically. I could register dismay and raw empathy on every face I encountered. On several occasions, they were forced to sedate me because I was sobbing so hard that I couldn't breathe. I would wake up and immediately lose my shit with the realization that I was still in this earthly realm.
What changed? Two psychiatrists took turns comforting and counseling me. The things they said were like cold water on a continuously smoldering ember. One of them said, "If you stare into the darkness long enough, you'll see what isn't there." The other said, "I see the hell in your heart, and I raise you the heaven in mine." The first one said, "I know you treat the people you hate better than anyone you've cared about has treated you." The colloquialisms and buzzwords kept coming at me from every direction. Finally. People who knew EXACTLY what I was thinking and feeling. They were saying exactly what I needed to hear.
I reluctantly joined the other patients for lunch. I sat in group therapy and opened up. One afternoon, I had the entire group in tears. The staff were weeping as well. For the first time in almost twelve years, I felt my heart soar. I felt warmth instead of bitter frost. I felt a modicum of benevolence toward myself. Quite simply, I felt hope.
I had a dark relapse after meeting with a decidedly condescending fuckwit of a psychiatrist. He told me I needed a myriad of pharmacopeia coursing through my veins to keep me from employing suicidal ideation. He told me I had poor social skills and probably always would. He told me that he was going to legally force me to attend three hours of therapy five days a week He kept interrupting when I tried to explain my desired transformation; that his colleagues were currently guiding me towards the light. In essence, he was much more of a detriment to my wellbeing than a beacon in the darkness. Arrogant sociopathic almost-human fuckstain. I returned to my unit despondent and teary. One staff member was furious and actually left the unit to confront the arrogant prick. One BHT sat me down and said, "Don't you DARE listen to what that doctor said." I was assured that I would not have any further contact with him. Another relief.
By day five, I was laughing with my fellow hospital guests. We played charades, watched movies and convinced the staff that we needed music so we could dance. Several staff members actually danced with us.
The day before my release, a few staff members pulled me aside and expressed their encouragement; telling me what an exemplary patient I was. I honestly couldn't believe that I had come full circle in such a short period of time. But it happened. The hope I currently feel is real. I owe my renewed sense of self-awareness to a handful of daring and caring behavioral health associates that pulled me from the brink of despair. I feel hundreds of pounds lighter. I no longer feel like every pore on every inch of my skin is suffocating. I don't feel like every breath I take is a punishment.
I am a newly knighted warrior. I will tirelessly defeat my heretofore daunting dread. I will dedicate my life to yanking others out of the way of their barreling moving trucks.
I send each and every individual who reads this light. Be good to yourselves.
"There are people you don't know who love you."
Eight days ago, I came closer to death than any of my past attempts. I stood on the curb of a busy thoroughfare waiting for the biggest fastest truck I could jump in front of. There were several starts and stops. I was jumping in place; preparing for self-deliverance. I saw the right moment approaching. An enormous moving truck barreling toward me. I actually giggled knowing this was it. I checked the nearest traffic light; it had just turned green. The driver was not going to slow down. I took a step back and made to propel myself forward. Both of my feel left the ground. I felt relief knowing that finally the pain would stop. I was jolted backwards. Someone behind me had a vice grip on my hoodie. I laid there on the ground, cursing the fellow who had saved me. I was screaming and sobbing and convulsing with the astonishment of my failure. I couldn't see, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't hear what everyone was saying to me. After a moment the man who yanked me from my intentions pulled me up and held me as I continued to sob. He held me until emergency services arrived. As I was placed in the back of the ambulance the man called out, "There are people you don't know who love you." Needless to say, that sent me into another meltdown. Only this time it wasn't fear or pain. It was the unfamiliar glimmer of hope.
The first two days in the behavioral hospital was sheer unbridled hell. After more than a year of self-imposed isolation, I was thrust into a small unit with fifteen other people. Meltdown after meltdown. I kept purging everything I tried to swallow. I was sobbing hysterically. I could register dismay and raw empathy on every face I encountered. On several occasions, they were forced to sedate me because I was sobbing so hard that I couldn't breathe. I would wake up and immediately lose my shit with the realization that I was still in this earthly realm.
What changed? Two psychiatrists took turns comforting and counseling me. The things they said were like cold water on a continuously smoldering ember. One of them said, "If you stare into the darkness long enough, you'll see what isn't there." The other said, "I see the hell in your heart, and I raise you the heaven in mine." The first one said, "I know you treat the people you hate better than anyone you've cared about has treated you." The colloquialisms and buzzwords kept coming at me from every direction. Finally. People who knew EXACTLY what I was thinking and feeling. They were saying exactly what I needed to hear.
I reluctantly joined the other patients for lunch. I sat in group therapy and opened up. One afternoon, I had the entire group in tears. The staff were weeping as well. For the first time in almost twelve years, I felt my heart soar. I felt warmth instead of bitter frost. I felt a modicum of benevolence toward myself. Quite simply, I felt hope.
I had a dark relapse after meeting with a decidedly condescending fuckwit of a psychiatrist. He told me I needed a myriad of pharmacopeia coursing through my veins to keep me from employing suicidal ideation. He told me I had poor social skills and probably always would. He told me that he was going to legally force me to attend three hours of therapy five days a week He kept interrupting when I tried to explain my desired transformation; that his colleagues were currently guiding me towards the light. In essence, he was much more of a detriment to my wellbeing than a beacon in the darkness. Arrogant sociopathic almost-human fuckstain. I returned to my unit despondent and teary. One staff member was furious and actually left the unit to confront the arrogant prick. One BHT sat me down and said, "Don't you DARE listen to what that doctor said." I was assured that I would not have any further contact with him. Another relief.
By day five, I was laughing with my fellow hospital guests. We played charades, watched movies and convinced the staff that we needed music so we could dance. Several staff members actually danced with us.
The day before my release, a few staff members pulled me aside and expressed their encouragement; telling me what an exemplary patient I was. I honestly couldn't believe that I had come full circle in such a short period of time. But it happened. The hope I currently feel is real. I owe my renewed sense of self-awareness to a handful of daring and caring behavioral health associates that pulled me from the brink of despair. I feel hundreds of pounds lighter. I no longer feel like every pore on every inch of my skin is suffocating. I don't feel like every breath I take is a punishment.
I am a newly knighted warrior. I will tirelessly defeat my heretofore daunting dread. I will dedicate my life to yanking others out of the way of their barreling moving trucks.
I send each and every individual who reads this light. Be good to yourselves.
"There are people you don't know who love you."
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