I pray that strength would sprout up in you like a rose.
On Going Through Hell:
July 2018 was the first time I admitted myself into a psychiatric hospital due to severe suicidal thoughts and feeling like another person had taken over my body with a will completely different from my own. That person had willed to die. I hurriedly turned myself in to the therapist on call at UTSA exclaiming that I needed to be institutionalized and that I’d otherwise would be in danger of killing myself. I had been living alone for a little over a month by now because my roommates had moved out for the summer. My best friend and I had just parted ways because she could not handle all the heaviness that I depended on her to relieve me of, and my family had long disowned me. My last resort for coping was death I thought, but I also didn’t really want to die deep down. I asked myself these questions: What would happen if I die? Where would I go, and what would happen to the people I love? What’s it like to die? So I settled the matter by fessing up to the therapist at UTSA, my school at the time.
Little did I know that the Emergency Detention process entailed being searched like a criminal, handcuffed and tossed into the backseat of a cop car. This alone was enough to induce a panic attack, but of course I’d suppress my symptoms as best I could in hopes to prevent anyone from treating me any worse. The trouble didn’t end when I arrived to the psychiatric hospital. The environment was so strange and unsettling that although it was the most ideal place for me initially, processing the experience after discharge was a handful by itself. Overall, the environment was relatively nurturing, but being told what to do in an unfamiliar setting all hours of the day and being surrounded by humans who are suffering just as much as you are can leave different scars than those you walked in with. And of course, I experienced some temporary healing but didn’t see the point in staying on medication, especially given that I didn’t have insurance. Shortly after being discharged, I went online and met a handsome fella. We engaged in a bit of long distance romance for quite a little while, and showered each other in the most shallow and clingy love we could possibly provide. Pretty shallow and not exactly godly, but it was enough to drown out my grim reality. I’m still not exactly sure that hanging on to him for as long as I did was the best choice, because I can tell you assuredly that today in April 2019 I consider our breaking up to be traumatic and was the trigger that resulted in my two most recent hospitalizations.
In March 2019 I spent three days at Nix Specialty Health Center (a psychiatric hospital), where I was diagnosed with depression and prescribed 20mg of Prozac. Malachi (the guy I met online) had told me he only wanted to be friends, which I did not exactly take to heart but found myself mentally and emotionally unstable, because he had emotionally withdrawn. Eventually, I called the police explaining that I needed to be admitted due to thoughts of suicide and symptoms of a panic attack. Again I was arrested and transported to the Nix via a cop car. The Nix was an overall wonderful experience. Aside from the fact that the nurse technicians reeked of nicotine and various patients suffered such severe mood disorders that they’d occasionally bang on the windows at the nurses station, I’d say the visit served it’s ultimate purpose. It prevented me from committing suicide and I felt deep healing from the nurture of the therapists. The Prozac is still working today.
The trauma continues. Only two weeks later (about 4 days ago as I write this) the time came for me to genuinely take to heart Malachi’s declaration that his love for me was not romantic, and that it would never be. In April 2019 I called my best friend Nyomie and admitted to feeling suicidal. She calmly talked me through my feelings and encouraged me that things would soon improve in my life, to hang on, and that she cared for me. Things quickly spiraled out of control and before you know it I was hallucinating and forgetting my own name. It was she who made the tough decision to call campus PD and have me assessed. To sum things it was decided that I needed to be transported to the nearest ER. I refused to go with the police and as God’s sovereignty would have it, the paramedics walked me to the ambulance and drove me to Methodist Department of Psychiatry at Medical Center in San Antonio. On Sunday March 31st, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, and Dissociative Disorder with symptoms of PTSD. I’m taking a lot of prescription meds. I know this sounds strange, but I have a lot of hope, hope that neither the psychiatrist, my best friends or anyone else in the world could give me. I know things will get better.