Unfortunately circumstances necessitated that I make a slight disappearance this past week. I had been anticipating this trip in seriousness for several weeks, mentally preparing myself each day should the occasion arise. My last psychiatric hospitalization was in August of 2013, and I set myself on a personal endeavor to avoid future hospitalizations at all costs. I have successfully done so up until now. I built such an aversion within my mind to the possibility of requiring a higher level of care in order to ensure safety and promote emotional stability. Over the past few weeks, I began to chip away at this aversion and allow the notion of the need to seek inpatient care creep into my mind, acknowledging the benefit and worth I could derive from such a stay. My moods have been vacillating between significant mania and significant depression, consisting greatly of mixed episodes (episodes in which one experiences mania and depression simultaneously or within short periods of time. These episodes are especially difficult to treat). Intellectually I saw myself approaching hospitalization, but emotionally I adamantly resisted it. However this past Monday, the barrier was broken.
As per my mother’s suggestion, I have had a bag packed for several weeks containing essential clothing and toiletry items, my journals, and The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, also an essential item. I brought these items with me to each of my electroconvulsive therapy treatments at the hospital these past few weeks, should they decide to admit me. Well, this past Monday a collective decision was made between the doctor, my mother, and myself. I could no longer contract for safety and my moods were debilitating and all-consuming. The greatest determinant for my admission, for me, was that I was tired. Tired of battling these ups and downs constantly, of battling the constant slew of appointments and the exhaustion that arises from receiving electroconvulsive therapy treatments, and from just battling life. I needed a rest and a safe place to be.
Following my electroconvulsive therapy treatment, the psychiatric unit sent a nurse and a wheel chair to transport me to the unit. I was pretty drugged up at that point from general anesthesia, a paralytic, and major sedatives, but I was determined to make sure Puppy made the trip from the surgical prep area to the unit closely in my care. Puppy is a stuffed dog that has been with me to each of my thirty-two electroconvulsive therapy treatments. After arriving and completing my intake, life resumed to as I recalled it to be from past stays. Treatment at this center has far surpassed in quality the treatment I have received at the three others hospitals at which I have stayed. The program is DBT – Dialectical Behavior Therapy – based, focusing on distress tolerance skills, mindfulness, and how to manage our emotions and symptoms effectively and to the best of our abilities. The days consisted of class after class, all varying in content. The basis for many classes were DBT topics, but there were also meditation classes, outdoor activities, and cooking classes. I learned how to make fruit nachos, so if you are ever curious for the recipe, please send me a message! One of the greatest highlights of the program was the camaraderie I developed with my fellow patients and the experiences we shared together, especially rousing games of Apples to Apples and Pictionary. My greatest regret was the unavailability of the vegan lentil soup each day I spent there.
Most puzzlingly, during my stay, I experienced what appeared to be a miraculous recovery. I was bubbly, chatty and talkative – albeit probably too much, a possible harbinger of moods to come – and quite amicable. I believe the electroconvulsive therapy provided an emotional respite and residence in the unit provided a much-needed rest and an environment in which I could be safe and unable to act on self-destructive urges I may have. Since being home, many of my symptoms have returned, possibly in less intensity, but I feel rested and better equipped to tackle and address them head-on. While no medications were changed, I received a reinvigoration and condensed refresher on my DBT distress tolerance skills.
I needed this rest. Yes, self-destructive urges have reared their ugly heads once again and I am cycling pretty quickly, but my body and mind are rededicated to my seemingly endless fight. I know I can never rid myself of this illness, but I can ardently commit to the fight – both for the sake of myself and for the sake of those around me whom I love. I have been closely monitoring numbers – numbers of medications I have been on, for how long, and their doses, or the number of hospitalizations I have had, which now has reached eleven. However I believe this may be both productive and counterproductive. I know I must acknowledge the worth in closely following my progress, but I also must ground myself in the here and now and do what I can to win this battle. I will not concede to my disorder. It must face my ironclad box of skills I have developed, and I know, with a certainty, it will not win.