You know that icky feeling you get when someone starts talking about, or even worse, asking you questions about a topic that makes you particularly uncomfortable? It may be "the healing touch", or your sex life, your income, or even your "feelings."
On saturday night as shane and i were driving home from a party i started talking to him about how i had been feeling. That i had the feeling that my control over my emotions was slipping out of my grasp. That my anxiety and depression were getting the better of me. I guess i was asking for help. I told him, in a half joking manner, that if it weren't for the kids i probably would have killed myself by now.
He drove me straight to emergency. I cried the whole way. The closer we got the more the feeling of dread washed over me. I agreed to go for him. I knew it was probably the right thing to do. Knowing what's right and doing it are two very different things.
We checked in and waited. Both of us nervously tapping our toes, remembering all too vividly the last time we had been in emergency under these circumstances. The thirteen years that had passed in between seemed, in those hours, to be just a few days. Eventually, i got called into the back. I waited another hour or more and then got up and walked out.
Shane screamed at me in the car all the way home. He called my family. His mother was already at our house, babysitting.
When i woke up in the morning. A massive intervention swooped down upon me. Everybody was worried. Alarm bells had been set off and i found myself in the most uncomfortable of situations. Having to talk about my feelings. With lots of people.
Shane drove me back to emergency in the early afternoon. Much more calmly we talked. We came up with a plan. That was sunday.
Today i spent another six hours at the hospital. They wanted me to stay. I didn't want to. I told them that being away from my children would cause me much more anxiety than any rest i might get in a hospital.
But, i am on the fast track to many services, including a psychiatrist appointment later this week and a PERT nurse phoning me every twelve hours to make sure i am "OK."
I don't know that i am OK. In a way i feel much worse. Forced to confront all this shit swirling in my head. Forced to accept help. Forced to say that i need help.
The doctor today did feel that most of this is a combination of withdrawal symptoms and withdrawal from an anti-depressant that was actually working, despite my feeling that it wasn't.
So. What did you do this weekend?
Posted by Jess at 09:10 PM Permalink
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Oh Jess, Hugs to you. I dont know what to say. I have been where you are.
Posted by denise | March 19, 2007 10:14 PM