My Mental Health Journey: Part Two, My Psychiatric Hospitalizations
During my first semester at The University Of Findlay, I was hospitalized for suicidal thoughts. I admitted myself, because deep down, I didn't really want to die. I just wanted the unbearable pain to end, so I sought help through the psychiatric unit of Blachard Valley Hospital close to my university.
I was admitted on a chilly October evening and was left in a cold, white room with nothing but a cot and a blanket. I was waiting for a room to open up, and I was scared. I wondered if I had done the right thing, or if I would have been better off following through with my plan to take my life.
I was given a room and saw the doctor the next morning, and from that moment on, I don't remember a thing.
I frequently ask my parents what happened to me there, and they always explain that I was very medicated, and that is why I don't remember the events of my three days in the hospital.
They tell me that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and that I was given a heavy cocktail of medication that turned me into a zombie and partial vegetable.
I don't remember anything about my stay in this hospital, except for a visit I had received from the Chaplain of my university. He restored my faith in God and in myself, and I left the hospital knowing that I wanted a "Life Recovery Bible", like the one the Chaplain read from while I was admitted.
I don't remember leaving the hospital, but I do remember getting my Bible. I remember coming home and resting, and then the rest is a blur.
I remember that the tremors, a side effect of the lithium, kept me from brushing my teeth, shaving my legs, and feeding myself.
I remember sleeping most of the day, and having to rely on my dad and his wife for my basic needs.
I remember going off of the medication, and moving in with my sister and her husband in Columbus, where I got a job that I didn't keep, and ended up back in the hospital there.
This time, I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) and my medication was changed. I don't remember much about this hospital stay, either, and again, frequently as my parents and older sister what happened to me there.
They explain that the doctor wanted me to undergo a treatment called Dialectial behavior therapy (DBT), but that there were no providers near our home. My mom explains how difficult it was to preside over my care when my dad wanted to do the same, but I won't get into that.
I remember moving back home after that, and remember going on with my life. I felt better, but not as good as I should have been feeling.
I was experiencing something different from depression at this time. I was impulsive, irritable, and hypersexual. I had engaged in another romantic relationship, my first since the relationship of my first semester of college, but like the one in college, this one ended, too.
When that relationship ended, I moved away and went on with my life for four years, until I was hospitalized again in December of 2015. This hospitalization was different than the previous two, as I was being treated for postpartum depression (PPD), which I had been struggling with for the first nine months after my daughter was born.
I left Flower Hospital feeling like a new woman, liking the medication cocktail I was put on, and using the coping skills I acquired from group and individual therapy.
I started therapy when I left Flower, and started to want to investigate my diagnosis. I believed that my bipolar diagnosis was wrong, and that the borderline diagnosis needed to be treated more aggressively.
I wasn't getting what I needed from my therapist or doctor, so I scheduled an appointment with a new doctor and therapist, and am currently awaiting them.
