Some updates before I start in on the topic of "Hospitalization":
1. Friday - Horrible. Panic attack, freak out, heard voices, etc. I would've scratched holes in my hands if I had been alone. Don't wanna think about it or go there. Sorry, that's just too much.
2. Saturday - Saw my great-grandma who is starting to go nuts. My great-aunt or something has Parkinson's and she's... *sigh* Not well.
3. Sunday - Pure, unadulterated boredom. Gahhh.
4. I am FINALLY getting ready to beat Metroid Prime on GameCube if Trevor would ever get his butt home and send me the help I so dearly need. However, since I'm on the internet, maybe I should just look up a walkthrough...? Nah. I'll let Trevor do that. I'll play guitar instead.
5. I've been playing guitar a LOT. :D It's fun.
6. I'm not going to be in band next year, so Mom says I can get lessons in an instrument of my choice... One that we already have. I have plenty of options though... Piano, guitar and flute being the most obvious choices. However, I do believe that I'm going to ask for voice lessons as soon as we get settled in. Or maybe voice and guitar alternating weeks. That would be cool. :D
7. I have been taking my meds, so another breakdown shouldn't happen anytime soon.
Err. I think that's it for right now.
On to hospitalization!
My mom is an ICCU nurse, so I'm comfortable in a hospital setting, because when I would have a bad panic attack, they'd take me up to Mom and I'd sit in the waiting room or the office until she got off work.
However, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go back to last October.
It was U of I weekend. Anyone in Marching Band at Galesburg knows that U of I weekend is BIG. It's the largest and by far the most important band competition we go to. I was, currently, suicidal and majorly anxious. I was having three or four panic attacks a day. At least. Well, I got really suicidal. I was like, going to do something, except like, ending my life is totally permanent and I didn't really want to be gone forever, I just wanted the pain to stop. However, making that distinction at that point in time was really not happening. I saw "End of Pain = Death". Not exactly the correct equation, but hey. I asked for help. That's more than some people do.
At any rate, I knew that "End of Pain = Death, Medicine" (That was a math reference. Kudos to whoever got it.) In layman's terms, End of Pain was accomplished by death (the easier method) or medicine. I decided that I would rather take meds than die, if only because if I was dead, then I wouldn't have my music. Like, I know there's music and stuff in heaven, but iPods? What about Linkin Park? I don't think so. Maybe! That would be uber cool. Linkin Park is da shizzzzz. lol (Had to throw that in there for randomness sake. =P )
So, getting back on topic, I went to a hospital. Not only that, but Jason broke up with me on the same weekend. Bad timing, dude. Anyway, Monday, October 19, 2009 I was admitted to Lincoln Prairie Behavioral Health Center. The only reason I know the date is because it was David's birthday and I felt horrid that I was being admitted to the hospital down in Springfield on his birthday. ): I was there for a full five days, and that was long enough for me. Those people didn't have the same problems I did. They were drug addicts who had sex and kids and smoked cigs on a regular basis and lied to their parents and got in fights at school. I was a sheltered, suicidal kid who wanted to get away from home. Home was better than that hellhole. Gahh.
Everyone there had a corn cob shoved up their ass, I swear to God. Like, no one freakin' relaxed! And one chick especially was like, really fat and bitchy. Gawd. I'm not one to be rude like that usually, I promise, but it was obscene almost. Blech. We weren't allowed to breathe without getting special clearance and when we went to the bathroom, the doors had to be unlocked for us. And then there were "time out" rooms. Two of them. And ya know what? None of the staff had ever heard about panic attacks. -.-" They totally didn't understand how imperative it is for me to have MUSIC when I'm PANICKING. Erg.
And then the therapist... Gr. She wasn't nice. She misinterpreted and thought I was giving textbook answers. No, thank you very much, I just have a vocabulary unlike the rest of the people who come through here. I care about getting better and I'm telling you just like it is. No, you don't have to read between the lines because I'M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH. Grr. We didn't have a very good family session.
Oh, and I couldn't do any of my homework. -.-" They had it all locked up in a cabinet they couldn't get to so I was like, weeks behind on my homework. That's when I just dropped all my classes and went to home study.
Anyway, I was realeased after five days (which was relatively short, compared to some of the girls. They'd been there for weeks). When I got home, I had a bit of an OCD problem. I chopped off all my hair, was acting very strange and ended up in the ICCU with Mom. Oh, and for those of you who are scratching your head going, "What's that extra 'C' doing in there?", it stands for Intensive Cardiac Care Unit. =P
So, I was in the room waiting for mom to get off work. I was stuttering, I had to walk a certain way and I had to take a certain type of number of steps. If I didn't take a certain type of number of steps, I had to walk around the elevators or around in circles or something until the amount of steps was the correct type of number.
I ended up in the ER, where they did nothing. They made me pee in a cup (which I didn't know only had to be a quarter of the way full. If they wanted to, they could've retested me like, twelve times. Oh well. The more the merrier.) ( o_o")
Then, they got Bridgeway to talk to me without Mom in the room. By that time, it was fairly late at night and I was done with the panic attack thingy. Bridgeway is like, 92.8743% useless. Therefore, our meeting was uselsess and I got to go home. Home. Not somewhere I wanted to be.
That was the last time I was in the hospital for something. Then, Grandma Catharine (the Grandma that I'm closest to by a long shot) wound up in the hospital. Blerg. Not good. She had a stroke and she's pretty much unresponsive. Sometimes I can see a little spark of recognition and she responds by gripping my fingers or something, but she hasn't talked and she can't move the right side of her body. It's really quite sad. )): She's probably going to die soon, and for all the pain she's in lately, I hope she does. She knows where she's going and its a happier place than is here. Selfishly, I want her here. I want my Gramma. However, I love her and if I love her, then I'll want what's best for her. And if what's best for her is to move on, then I'll be glad to see her go. I'll miss her like hell when she's gone, you can be sure of that.
Grandma is an amazing person; I've never met anyone who is so peaceful and who has the compassion or the ability to love so completely. Grandma is a sweet, sweet person who has had a hard life. She deserves the best and I hope she gets it soon. There is so much to say about Grandma, but no words are even close to just how majestic of a person she is. When she giggles in her special Grandma way, it makes my heart feel warm and full, even if I've been having a bad day. We've never been close enough that we were like friends, but I absorbed her knowledge and wisdom and we shared jokes and soda. And Grandma gives special Grandma kisses that I'll miss. I think today is the first time I've seen her sans lipstick that I can remember, except when she broke her hip and had surgery and we went and visited her in the hospital. Grandma Mary Catharine Baker-Brown, I love you. You will be missed dearly when you go. <3
I think I'll leave you with these tidbits: What do you believe? Why? Now, think of the most precious person you know. If they believed the exact opposite of you, would they go to heaven? I believe there are many paths to God or whatever you want to call Him, him, her, them, she, whatever, and only you can find the one you're supposed to travel on. Grandma has found her path. Have you?
Hospitals are great for certain things, but for me at least, when it comes to depression and needing help, family is better than any hospital could be. If you're feeling horrid, get help. Somebody, and usually more than one person, loves you enough to bend over backwards for you so that you can feel better. Trust me, it's worth it. I can't begin to imagine how drastically different my life would be without Mom, Kristen, Panda, David, Mommeh, and Becky. Every one of those people have helped me to learn life lessons that are extremely important. I love every single one of those people.
To sum up my random rantings above ^.^, Get help if you need it, from the hospital to your family. Just ask someone for help.
No comments:
Post a Comment