Funny story from the recent past: met a guy who fancied me, and have a girl friend who he fancied as well. The girl friend was/is bi-curious, and decided, hey, let’s get into a threesome. She told me her intentions, I said, whatever. She wanted me to ask him if he was down. I go to him, tell him my friend’s idea, and he’s more than into it. Set up the day, the location, everything. Moment of glory comes and they both back out.
It got too real for them.
The next few weeks, they individually held me accountable for “forcing” them into the situation. I didn’t force anyone or anything then. I have a forceful voice and a forceful hand, and I know the kind of damage that can come from either.
So, last week, in the moment I became extremely invested in the want to deliver physical pain to a person who provoked me, I found clarity and decided instead to turn myself in, lest I destroy way more than this person’s physique. My hand was not forced. My voice was shaky, but the words I delivered were with resolve: I’d like to be admitted for observation. The usual questions prior to strip down: Are you suicidal? Yes. Are you homicidal? Yes. You understand with admission you have to stay in observation for a minimum of 72 hours? Yes. Sign here, here, here, here….
I spent five days in “the unit.” Today (Tuesday) is my first full day out. I did the responsible thing; I accounted for my intentions. I sought psychiatric help but I didn’t get help. Since I’m not in this state’s system, I was not offered any treatment. The best the state could do was put me in the hole and administer sedating anti-psychotics. This is the health system, a three-way tease. There’s the existing laws for disability treatment, there’s the bureaucracy that drives the operating procedures, and there’s me, not receiving anything but admonishment for putting the health system in a predicament.
Who’s your doctor? Don’t have one.
Why don’t you have a doctor? My plan doesn’t kick in until July.
Why aren’t you on medication? *sigh*
In the 100 hours I was in the unit, I spent less than a minute with the psychiatrist on the two occasions I was brought before him, just enough time for the doctor to admit me to the high profile unit, and enough time to discharge me, not even looking up from my chart as he asked, “do you have somewhere to live?”
I still wonder, what if I had said no?
As the blog title suggests, I’m not the pity-me type, maybe that’s part of the problem, maybe I’d be a better writer if I was. The thing is, I have a condition that deserves to be addressed, I had it under control until things just spun out of control. I am in the position to discuss my issues, but no one’s in the position to listen. Had I not discovered writing as a creative outlet for my constant rage, I don’t think I’d be breathing right now.
I’m not alone. The PTSD Family is growing rapidly, worldwide. We are the only ones who truly understand our symptoms. We break hearts, upset our employers, sadden our family and friends. Turning to each other for comfort only pokes the animal. I hope I can find a treatment plan that addresses my unique yet ubiquitous condition, but until then, I stick to the three tools my last mental health practitioner gave me:
1) don’t drown yourself in addictive substances
2) stay clear of your triggers
3) if you’re at the point of no return, turn yourself in to the authorities
That’s the best for now.