On the state of being fearful
Sweet Sunday

The Intake

Feelinglucky I have no experience with, um, what do we call them now? Behavioral Modification Centers (psych hospitals). I have a lot of negative connotation though some of it real (maybe?) and some of it not so real (maybe?) and we already know how I feel about Stamford Hospital.

For a woman sitting nearly bare-assed in a hospital gown and wrapped in a blanket, there sure was an awful lot of paperwork. The paperwork stretched into the physical exam (strip search) that involved no cavities but did make a thorough inventory of every scratch, bump, bruise, cut and scar on my body. Meanwhile I'm on the tail end of an eight day migraine and can barely see the walls in front of me. We come to the psychiatric evaluation and, well, I suspect all hell broke lose. I don't know what I said I only know I exploded and when you explode your means of communication are severely limited. I KNOW that I said I don't medicate well. I KNOW I said I self-medicate with alcohol but not much because I can't tolerate more than a glass or two of wine. I KNOW I said I wasn't depressed, just physically and emotionally exhausted and angry as hell. At 10 PM on a Friday night that's not what he heard and I found myself on a Celexa and detox track that might have killed me if I'd been out loose in the world instead of watched like a hawk on a fifteen minute check. 

There was nothing to detox and antidepressants are deadly for me.

At 10:30 I went to my room. My room had a single twin bed and one small night table. And window. There was a window. Nothing else short of the bathroom. The blond cheerful woman gave me blue pajamas and another blanket. I laid down in the bed and waited to be told I could have something for my head. I waited a very long time before I got up to ask. He told me I was agitated. I told him I thought my head was going to blow off. On a scale of 1 to 10 I'd have to call it an 8. I don't think I know 10. 8s are bad enough. Just before midnight I was given 600 mg of ibuprofen and a smallish dose of Ativan. It was a nice cocktail. I went to sleep. I did not have my thumb in my mouth but I thought about it.

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