When I shut down this blog nearly nine months ago, I didn’t think it would be forever, but I thought it’d be awhile. Here I am, back again.
I’ll give a more thorough update on my life in a day or two, but a quick update on the reason I left this blog—my book. My first novel published two months ago. While I won’t be moving to the Hamptons anytime soon, I’m ecstatic how well the sales have gone for a first novel from an unknown. The reviews have made me happy too. I plan to release a second novel in September and even more next year. It truly is a dream come true.
So, the question is, why am I back? Because I’m hurting. I’m hurting like hell.
Everything Old is New Again
I don’t know how or why this happened. Things have been going so well for so long that I nearly believed I was “fixed.” Looking back over the past two or three weeks, I should have seen it coming. I’ve been more irritable, scared, distractible…much of the usual. The problem is, it was gradual. It sneaked in step by quiet step and then BAM! Hit me smack on the head…or should I say IN the head.
**** Trigger Warning: Suicide Ideation ****
When I look back on my life, I scratch my head. As those who have read this blog know, I’ve been abused physically and mentally; I’ve been homeless, sleeping on benches; I’ve gleefully worked jobs only to suddenly lose them out of being incapable of performing basic life functions; I’ve tried to return to school, and even while receiving special accommodations, failed or had to drop every class; I’ve begged on my knees to be accepted into county mental health programs only to be turned away because they were too full and I was “too high functioning.”
Sixteen years ago, I was whisked away to the hospital and locked in a psych ward for ten days, because a doctor suspected, correctly, that I was suicidal.
Why am I Being so Depressing?
I list the above not to gain pity or sympathy. I feel it’s necessary to put things in perspective. Through all of that, even when I moped around the dank halls of a psych ward, never did I feel like I’m feeling now. Sure, I was suicidal before and sure I had a plan, but never have I felt so hopeless. Never have I felt more that there was no reason to hang around. Never have I felt more like the world would be better without me.
The worst of it happened about three days ago. I hated everything in my life. Other than Maurice, I couldn’t think of one good thing worth staying around for. As he said, he isn’t enough. I need more than that and I didn’t think there was anything more. I burst in tears in Maurice’s arms with no sign of hope, while he cried as well.
I am doing better now. I’m not even close to where I need to be, but I don’t fear being home alone. Since those absolute worse moments, I have been either with Maurice or with friends. I’ve had babysitters to ensure I was/am safe. Today is the first day I am on my own, but I’m far from being out of the dark.
What the fuck is wrong with our world that when a person is at their lowest, they’re expected to walk over coals, jump through hoops and spin on their head to get help—only to be turned away?
I changed insurance at the first of the year. In the process, I lost my psychiatrist and my therapist. While my therapist and I agreed I’d be okay, I still need a pdoc for my meds. In the meantime, my new primary care doctor supplied my meds while I waited for approval to come through for a new pdoc. When I was approved, I delayed making an appointment because she had given me several months’ worth of prescriptions and we both thought perhaps I’d be fine working with just her since I’d been balanced so long.
Now the shit has hit the fan. One of the reasons I chose my “outstanding” new insurance is because of their excellent mental health benefits, which includes an unlimited number of inpatient days at a mental health facility. Knowing a typical three-day hospital stay wouldn’t be enough to begin the trek for a new mix to keep me balanced, we sought out a long-term facility. My first call was to the first place on the list that’s a short distance from our home. What do you know? Despite being on the list, they don’t accept my insurance.
Today, on the phone, we were transferred to at least eight different departments to find someone who could help find a facility for me. When I yelled in the phone “I live in the second largest city in the country and you don’t know of a facility that can help me!” Maurice took over the phone and made me go in the other room and shut the door.
As for the psychiatrist that I was referred to, his office was happy to schedule an appointment at the fucking end of July. They were kind enough to put me on a priority waitlist if there’s a cancellation. Bless their hearts.
After all the calls, I still have no inpatient facility to go to. The insurance company plans to call me on Wednesday with the hopes of good news. Yes, I said they HOPE to have good news. Until then, I hang on tight and let the waves of peace then despair come and go.
I’m still bitter at life and see little hope, but I’m not at a stage where I fear taking my own life. I only know I need help and have no idea where I’m going to get it. I only hope it comes soon. I’m terrified of it going that dark again and I’m sitting on the edge.
So, welcome back to my blog. I have no idea how much I’ll post or how often, but Maurice convinced me it was a good idea to come back today. There are good things in my life that have happened in my life over the last nine months, in addition to the book, I hope to share those with you soon.