Waking up on the Wrong Side of my Bed

It's been a few days since I wrote. I have to admit, I have been in a bit of a "funk." I have told one very important person (other than my husband) about my blog, so I think I'm making at least some progress in the right direction. Back to my time at the "asylum." (P.S. If you are offended, please ignore my smart ass comments...no disrespect intended...if I can't mouth of and laugh, what else is there in life?) Annnnnyway....

I startled awake. I didn't wake up on the wrong side of MY bed. I woke up in the wrong bed. I realized all too suddenly where I was. I was still crazy. I had no idea what time of day it was. I could hear voices and a bit of hustling and bustling. When I finally got up the nerve to leave my room, I realized everyone was congregated in the smallish dining/tv watching room. There were about seven of us there, I think. While they were all staring at me, I took a quick survey of them...in my mind guessing their issues. 

A nurse came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. We let you sleep in for a while. It's already 11:00, and lunch will be here soon. I went ahead and ordered a plate for you. Oh great...I have a long-lived hate for hospital food, but I gave a polite thank you (although I'm sure my face showed otherwise). 

"I need to give you your meds, and then I think we'll have enough time for you to meet with one of our social workers to get your intake information, since we didn't do that last night."

The times I've told my story to medical professionals must be in the millions by now. And pretty much each time the reaction is similar....shock and awe. Some will just come right out and speak their amazement. One ER doc looked at Richard and said, "You are lucky to be married to this little lady. She should have died." Oh, thanks, I wanted to say. And don't call me little lady. I always just smile and say, "I know." I was expecting no different today, and I felt an odd relief that I had so much to tell....certainly I had EVERY reason to be crazy. I was justified. I chuckled to myself. As an aside, the entire time I was "locked up," and thus officially considered crazy, I found myself often cracking myself up by my thoughts. I would then smile or chuckle to myself. Yep, I definitely fit the part.

A very nice woman came out of an office, and with a welcoming smile, waved me into the office. I would say the office was about 10 x 10, in other words, SMALL. 

"Why," I thought to myself, "does the medical world continue to do things to make situations worse?" I am not claustrophobic, but I felt like climbing the walls. I took a deep breath, feeling a slight "buzz" from the medication. 

"So," she began. "Why don't you tell me about why you are here."

"How long do we have?" I said searching for a clock. She laughed. I wasn't kidding.

"Well, I just got to the point where I wanted it all to be over."

"By 'over' you mean?" she pushed me. She wanted me to say it. She wanted me to verbalize that I wanted to kill myself. As I write this, I'm realizing that I have always had a hard time with the semantics of situations. When I had cancer, we - our entire family - rarely ever uttered the word, "cancer." We always refer to it as, "when I was sick." I'm not sure how this is, if at all, psychologically significant, but I have a feeling it is.

So I very, very quietly uttered, "I had a plan.  You know - a plan to commit suicide."

She didn't even blink an eye. I guess she already knew that part.

"And do you have any idea why?"

Without a moments hesitation, I replied with a bit of unusual anger in my voice, "BECAUSE. BECAUSE it is maddening to know the kind of person you want to be, the kind of life you want to live, the kind of mom you want to be, the kind of job you want to have and not be able to do it."

She sat there for what seemed like eternity. I saw her begin to get a tear in her eye, as if she could somehow relate. Finally she simply responded, "Well said. Now tell me the rest of the story."