Morning number one- how am I going to survive this?
7am-- a couple of pills get shoved down my throat by a nurse. I fall back asleep.
8am-- knock on my door, "breakfast is ready." The last thing on my mind is breakfast. Last night they had me fill out a menu for breakfast-- I stared at it in complete and udder shock. There are what seems like a million options on the paper and the only thing I can think is, I should be dead.
I get up, look in the mirror, my cheeks are flushed and my eyes look desolate. I think out loud and say, "if they are so worried about putting sharp objects in my possession, why do they have a glass mirror in my bathroom?" I am wearing purple scrubs and those damned hospital socks. Walking out into the 'living area', I see my parents-- Starbucks coffee in hand. I mumble 'fuck' under my breath. Walk calmly over to them, I get a warm embrace and see a look of horror on their faces. I grab my breakfast-- biscuits and gravy. I notice I don't have a fork to eat them with, only a spoon. A spoon? Really? Mom and dad stare at me as my tears begin to flow. I just can't get over the fact that I have to eat with a spoon-- wow, I must be really fucked up. I begin to regain my composure and think about diving into my breakfast when I hear a soft voice.
And so it begins.
"Can I speak with you in your room?" I muster up a sure as the tears begin to flow. "My name is Dr. Evans and I am your psychiatrist" she states once we are walking in my room. She finds a seat on the cold tile floor as I sit on my bed. The comforter isn't really a comforter at all-- it feels and looks like an oversized towel. And the camera in the corner of the room-- awesome, they saw me sitting in the corner of the room last night cradling myself and rocking back and forth. I wonder if they heard the screams? Not to mention the bathroom, which has no door. The toilet looks like it belongs in a prison cell and there isn't a shower curtain. My mind is wandering-- she gets my attention by touching my arm. "How are you feeling this morning?" I think in my head, how do you think I feel? I wasn't supposed to be alive today. I don't answer, but I do shrug my shoulders. "Do you still feel suicidal?" I reply hesitantly, "yes." She states that the intake nurse that evaluated me noticed cuts on my wrist. "Can I see them?" My heart stops. Taking a deep breath, I unfold my arms and show her. Examining them she asks "are there any more?" Another deep breath and my heart begins to race. I pull down my purple scrubs and show her my legs. The cuts that I made last night and the scars that spell out 'fuck up' are etched in my skin. "Bless your heart" she says with a half smile. This statement makes me feel almost human, like someone finally has noticed how much pain I really am in.
She asks me question upon question about my past and present-- I know from my studies that she is doing a biopsychosocial on me. "From what you told us last night and your evaluation right now, I am diagnosing you with borderline personality disorder, PTSD, depression, and panic disorder." My eyes start to well up with tears again. "Can you sign a release so I can bring your parents in here and talk to them about all of this as well? I don't hesitate with my answer, "no." She stares at me shocked. "I can't help you then." I am in disbelief. The answer is still no. She half-heartedly listens to me when I tell her-- I'm an adult now and I can make my own decisions. My parents do not need to know every little bit of my life. I would like a bit of privacy. She walks out.
I need to get it together before I go back out there and tell them that I have BPD, depression, and panic disorder. I have decided to leave out the PTSD part because they know nothing of what has happened to me.
9am-- I wipe my eyes and put on a brave face. The nurse finds me as I sit down at the table-- more unknown meds down the chute. My breakfast is gone, I didn't get to eat it. The nurse hands me more menus- lunch, dinner, and breakfast for tomorrow. I have to fill all of these out? I look around for a pen or pencil, go up to the window and ask for a pen. "You only can have crayons… you might hurt yourself with a pen." Awesome, a crayon. I can't fucking wait.
8am-- knock on my door, "breakfast is ready." The last thing on my mind is breakfast. Last night they had me fill out a menu for breakfast-- I stared at it in complete and udder shock. There are what seems like a million options on the paper and the only thing I can think is, I should be dead.
I get up, look in the mirror, my cheeks are flushed and my eyes look desolate. I think out loud and say, "if they are so worried about putting sharp objects in my possession, why do they have a glass mirror in my bathroom?" I am wearing purple scrubs and those damned hospital socks. Walking out into the 'living area', I see my parents-- Starbucks coffee in hand. I mumble 'fuck' under my breath. Walk calmly over to them, I get a warm embrace and see a look of horror on their faces. I grab my breakfast-- biscuits and gravy. I notice I don't have a fork to eat them with, only a spoon. A spoon? Really? Mom and dad stare at me as my tears begin to flow. I just can't get over the fact that I have to eat with a spoon-- wow, I must be really fucked up. I begin to regain my composure and think about diving into my breakfast when I hear a soft voice.
And so it begins.
"Can I speak with you in your room?" I muster up a sure as the tears begin to flow. "My name is Dr. Evans and I am your psychiatrist" she states once we are walking in my room. She finds a seat on the cold tile floor as I sit on my bed. The comforter isn't really a comforter at all-- it feels and looks like an oversized towel. And the camera in the corner of the room-- awesome, they saw me sitting in the corner of the room last night cradling myself and rocking back and forth. I wonder if they heard the screams? Not to mention the bathroom, which has no door. The toilet looks like it belongs in a prison cell and there isn't a shower curtain. My mind is wandering-- she gets my attention by touching my arm. "How are you feeling this morning?" I think in my head, how do you think I feel? I wasn't supposed to be alive today. I don't answer, but I do shrug my shoulders. "Do you still feel suicidal?" I reply hesitantly, "yes." She states that the intake nurse that evaluated me noticed cuts on my wrist. "Can I see them?" My heart stops. Taking a deep breath, I unfold my arms and show her. Examining them she asks "are there any more?" Another deep breath and my heart begins to race. I pull down my purple scrubs and show her my legs. The cuts that I made last night and the scars that spell out 'fuck up' are etched in my skin. "Bless your heart" she says with a half smile. This statement makes me feel almost human, like someone finally has noticed how much pain I really am in.
She asks me question upon question about my past and present-- I know from my studies that she is doing a biopsychosocial on me. "From what you told us last night and your evaluation right now, I am diagnosing you with borderline personality disorder, PTSD, depression, and panic disorder." My eyes start to well up with tears again. "Can you sign a release so I can bring your parents in here and talk to them about all of this as well? I don't hesitate with my answer, "no." She stares at me shocked. "I can't help you then." I am in disbelief. The answer is still no. She half-heartedly listens to me when I tell her-- I'm an adult now and I can make my own decisions. My parents do not need to know every little bit of my life. I would like a bit of privacy. She walks out.
I need to get it together before I go back out there and tell them that I have BPD, depression, and panic disorder. I have decided to leave out the PTSD part because they know nothing of what has happened to me.
9am-- I wipe my eyes and put on a brave face. The nurse finds me as I sit down at the table-- more unknown meds down the chute. My breakfast is gone, I didn't get to eat it. The nurse hands me more menus- lunch, dinner, and breakfast for tomorrow. I have to fill all of these out? I look around for a pen or pencil, go up to the window and ask for a pen. "You only can have crayons… you might hurt yourself with a pen." Awesome, a crayon. I can't fucking wait.
