Monday was the most terrifying 24 hours I can remember since my first conscious day on the ventilator. I was in a full blown panic attack for the entire day, and realized in my scant moments of clarity, a few things were for certain:
I have to go to the hospital in order to get this medication situation taken care of. I can't do it alone.
I don't think there's any possible way it can wait until March when my Medicaid starts.
There's no way on earth I can go to Georgia this week.
It was a day of self-loathing and, in my mind at the time, utter failure. I had vowed when I was in rehab that I would never be "locked up" again. And here I am taking the needed steps to voluntarily go to a lockdown facility. I really, truly, must be out of my mind.
I also want to expedite this process. I can't go on living the way my brain has been forcing me to live as of late. That's not a suicide threat, far from it. I'm going to do everything I possibly can to fix this mess, and offing myself is not part of the plan. I am, however, constantly on the brink of total breakdown, of complete irrationality. I was scared of myself yesterday. And nothing I could do would stop it, would even slow it down. This kind of thing is happening more and more often, lasting for longer and longer periods of time. And I am afraid of what I could end up doing if the episodes get much worse.
I called my therapist and told her that I wanted to put the hospital stay on the front burner. We have to work around my meds doctor, and he's not exactly the easiest person in the world to work with, so this might take some time, but yesterday cemented the fact that it wasn't a matter of if I went to the hospital, it's a matter of when. The sooner, the better.
I haven't heard back from my therapist, which means that she hasn't been able to contact my meds doctor yet. This is not a surprise in the slightest, but perhaps by the end of the week I'll know more.
Which brings me to the subject of Georgia, my canceled trip, the wedding of one of my oldest and dearest friends and his wonderful fiancee, both of whom were there for me at my darkest times right before the coma and rehab, both of whom I love fiercely. I won't be there for their wedding, and it breaks my heart, but it's something I have to do for my own sanity. The panic that I was feeling at the thought of travelling, of being so far from home, and the demons I left down there along with my drinking days and the hospital…it was too much to comprehend, and I had to come to terms with the fact that I am simply not strong enough right now to travel, to be social, to be anywhere but a short walk to the emergency room, should something happen.
So to Stevil and the Cineaste, I am so sorry. I will regret not being there for your wedding for the rest of my life, but having me there would be a liability, a stain on an event that is for YOU, not your crazy friend. It's better this way. I know that *I* was supposed to be part of the wedding, but my bipolar wasn't invited, and it is in charge right now. I'm so, so sorry, and I love you both.
Ever since I made the two decisions – to go to the hospital when I can, and to not go to Georgia – I've been somewhat calmer. But yesterday was a terrifying ride into my brain, and I wasn't sure I would be able to get myself out of it this time. I don't have five or six more months of fight left in me without something changing. I really need help, and even though I'm shocked to hear myself say it, and it's something I've fought my whole life, I'm asking for it. I'm asking for help.
Now, the bureaucracy begins. Who knows what the next step will be. But I'm here, still here, to take it.