The Way Out is Through
I started painting again…it’s amazing how much better my work turns out when I don’t get too drunk…smh. The first one is a piece I started a while ago and really speaks to me. Phoenix Rising. The second one was about releasing society’s expectations and labels and following what resonates for me. I feel a lot like a blank canvas sometimes, trying to figure out who I am and what I am about, but I’m getting there. The last piece was inspired by a picture from a Tik Tok and the mom graciously allowed me to paint it. It really resonates with me because my therapist encouraged me to give myself permission to act like a kid when I want to, and I absolutely love the night sky. There is something so sweet about this child dancing under the stars that resonates with me.
DECEMBER 7th, 2021:
I don’t even know where to begin. I wrote my last post at 5am on December 1st, thinking I was fine. Echoes of my counselor’s voice in treatment are in my ears now, telling me that fine really stands for ‘fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotionally unstable.’ But I was in such denial I couldn’t even see it, until my mom begged me to go see my primary care provider. I thought she was overreacting, but after a long talk with Tyler, I reluctantly agreed.
December 1st. I had my to do list. Take Tyler’s tire to Superior Tire, See my PCP at 11, my therapist at noon, meet with my manager and HR after, then spend some time with my friend B before we went to AA, then home to Tyler. Everything happened so quickly it’s kind of a blur, but I remember my blood pressure being high and the look of concern on my provider’s face. She called it a crisis…and asked me to go get checked out. I hadn’t taken any cough syrup since the day prior, so I dismissed it but deep down I knew I needed some help. The last thing I wanted was to go to the ER…as a former ER nurse, I knew what happened to patients there for mental health. I agreed to go to the convenience care for bloodwork, but my anxiety was so high I knew I couldn’t drive. I found myself walking down the hall and burst into tears in my manager’s office. She drove me to the walk-in, where the staff gently told me I needed to go to the ER.
I had brought Rip (our 14 week old Belgian Malinois/German Shepherd mix), not caring what people thought. My manager gave my name to the check-in lady as I sat in a chair, feeling surreal and just focusing on Rip. Something told me to text my parents that I was there, and they showed up shortly after. After a bit of a wait I was brought back to a room, my anxiety and paranoia almost overwhelming. I don’t remember exactly what my blood pressure was, but it was still 160 something systolic. Eventually after bloodwork and tests, the provider told me he was putting in admission orders for Behavioral Health. I do remember holding this little ceramic essential oil angel in my hand, something that has somehow stayed with me since I was 12 years old, despite moving 20 something times.
They drove me over to Benefis West by ambulance, and my paranoia escalated even further when they asked why security was following us. I finally felt safe behind the locked double doors where a nurse with the most reassuring eyes met me. She had me sign my forms, stating I was a voluntary admission and was free to leave if I so choose. She showed me my room, but I was so restless I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t allowed to have anything back there with me, even my journal or Bible because this was where they kept patients that were suicidal. I definitely was not suicidal…ever since I quit drinking Halloween my suicidal ideation had dissipated. The bed sagged in the middle, and I couldn’t focus on the books. The nurse gave me a trazodone and tea to try to help me sleep, but it didn’t do anything, even after a second dose. I moved from the hard chair in the common area to the bed and back, zoning out and lost in thoughts most of the night. I finally dozed off at 3 am, sitting in the hard chair.
When I woke up there was another girl about my age eating breakfast. I asked if I could sit with her and listened as she told me her story. They gave me a breakfast tray, but I had no appetite. I played with the rubber pencil on the table and took in the austere settings. The CNA took my vitals—my blood pressure had gone down to normal. I asked for a feminine pad and she said she would get me one. I couldn’t help thinking this whole set-up reminded me of how the jail was set up, only with slightly bigger private rooms. At least in the jail there isn’t a camera pointed at you while you’re trying to sleep. Sometimes it would be one blue light, but most of the time it was multiple red lights. Knowing someone could be sitting at a desk somewhere, watching your every move, was one of the creepier things I’ve experienced.
My parents came up and visited, and we made small talk for a little while. I asked a second time for a pad. They left after a while and I took a nap. I woke up to see my friend B come in the room. She gave me a big hug and asked if she could read something from her AA book. I felt like a little girl being read a bedtime story, but it was comforting. I told her I did not agree with how society treated patients voluntarily seeking help and that this environment was making me feel even worse. I told her I felt like my needs weren’t being met—I hadn’t had my antidepressant since the day before yesterday, and I didn’t realize it at the time but not having my nicotine lozenges (I quit smoking back in May but I still use the nicotine…) and that I had started soaking through my pad. She went out and talked with the nurse and came back with one, finally.
I was starting to feel caged and antsy, thinking this is the last thing that was going to help me. I thought we would at least have a small group or something, but it was almost noon and aside from checking me in the night prior and checking my vitals, they hadn’t done anything therapeutic. I realized my anxiety was ramping up and knew I was ready to be sober, and that I could go home and Tyler’s sister would help me get into an outpatient treatment. I went up to the window and pressed the button. Most of the time the nurses were on the other side and we were pretty much left alone. I told her I would like to be discharged, and she told me I needed to see the psychiatrist first. I reminded her I was there voluntarily, and if need be I would be happy to sign out AMA. She replied she would have to call the on-call psychiatrist. It was after noon at this time and had done nothing but wait. She returned and said I was now an involuntary admit and would not be discharged until I saw the psychiatrist. I asked what I had done to warrant an involuntary hold—I was in no way, shape, or form suicidal and I definitely did not want to hurt others. I had been compliant with the staff and this really upset me because in my mind I had done nothing to indicate I needed to be involuntarily admitted—the nurse the night before had even told me I could be on the step down unit where I could have my cell phone and belongings. Is this what happens when patients try to get mental health help? After I unleashed my frustration on how fucked up this was, I asked the nurse to call my stepmom. No wonder people don’t want to seek help for mental health. It literally meant having my rights as a person stripped from me, being caged and at the mercy of a doctor to decide if I could leave. What if she decided to keep me? The thought made my panic rise even more, and I regretted ever agreeing to go to the emergency room. I hadn’t drank alcohol since Halloween, and dextromethorphan is not physically addictive. I had quit cold turkey before and I was sober at that time. They had literally done nothing for me but give me an ineffective sleeping pill.
Brenda and my dad arrived almost immediately, and I told her what was going on. I knew they were worried about me and didn’t want me to check out. I tried to explain that once again I felt caged, and no one was listening to me. Tyler showed up (the nurse let me text him and I had told him I was being discharged, prior to finding out they weren’t going to let me leave). Between him and Brenda, I reluctantly agreed to wait for the psychiatrist. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I hadn’t had my antidepressant in two days, no nicotine lozenge, and no caffeine. Finally after 2pm the psychiatrist came in with a social worker and did her evaluation. She asked me if I would be willing to self-report to the Board of Nursing, which I readily agreed. This was another reality check for me—if I didn’t do this, get sober, I was risking my livelihood. They explained their recommendation for treatment, and I agreed. Finally I was discharged at around 5pm. They asked me what I found most helpful during my stay and I told them the other two patients who had been there with me. And the doctor—I realized it had been most beneficial for me to stay because now I could finally get some help and get myself and my life back on track.
Walking out of that unit was the most liberating feeling. I will never voluntarily go to the ER for mental health help again, yet when I think back to spring 2018 when I was trying desperately to get into get help, meeting brick wall after brick wall, being told I could get into a provider in November, all I could think is no wonder our society’s mental health issues are what they are.
We went to my parents and ordered dinner. My dad and I went through my purse and I gave him the bottle of cough medicine. I called my mom and talked with my brother but mentally and emotionally I was so fried I didn’t want to talk to anyone else. Tyler and Rip came to pick me up to go home because I was still anxious and didn’t want to drive. He asked me if they gave me anything to help me detox, and I told him no. We had a long talk, then I soaked in the tub and went to bed.
I was exhausted and had the first full night of sleep in a while. I started the partial hospitalization program the next day (Friday 3rd), a three week treatment Monday through Friday from 9 to 3pm. After my experience at Benefis I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this program and had talked to Tyler’s sister about going to Alluvion, but by noon I realized this was where I needed to be. I could tell I would get along with my counselor and when I went into her office, she had butterflies hanging on the wall, a sign to me that this was right. We did an attachment style test, where my score indicated I had an anxious avoidant attachment style. That would explain my serial relationship style…leave before they leave you, preferably by the 3 month mark. My subconscious fear of abandonment had taught me it was better to leave them before they had a chance to leave me.
Tyler had been so amazing and supportive through what was easily my worst moments, and still cared about me. I realized I really could trust him, and for the first time in my life I felt like I could be myself and actually let myself love someone. Another silver lining was my relationship with my ex husband and his girlfriend improved considerably. Amanda had been amazing and so supportive—something she had no obligation to do whatsoever, and I am so grateful.
We picked the boys up that night and I had a long talk with Dillon. He broke my heart when he told me he would rather I go back to drinking then taking that medicine—an arrow in my soul when I realized how much I had upset him. Not only was my livelihood at stake, but so was my relationship with my sons—way more important than my job. I told him the vow to myself I had made—that I was going to get healthy and not abuse medications OR drink alcohol. That I was getting help to learn how to deal with my anxiety and depression so I wouldn’t feel the pull to numb out. I gave him a big hug and told him how much I loved him, and that it was time for him to not worry about me and to be a kid again. This should be his only job—enjoying his childhood while we teach him the things he needs to know as a person and eventually as an adult, but in a positive way. He hates indoor chores, but the second it’s time to water the cows or work outside, he is the first one out the door and asking “How can I help?” His gift is being the steady one, the rock in crisis. Being strong when everything around him is falling apart. But this is a gift he shouldn’t have to use until he’s older. I will praise him, but do everything in my power to let him have the childhood I feel like I missed out on.
Saturday we went to my dad’s and decorated for Christmas while Tyler stayed home to get some R&R. He had been slightly distant, invisible walls between us. He explained why—that the Jen he fell in love with was going to change, and that everything that had happened over the past week had really taken a toll on him. I could understand this, but the idea of losing him after realizing I was falling in love with him was terrifying. Yet when I thought about it from his perspective, it made sense. One of the things I love about him is his integrity to himself—his ability to realize how detrimental it is to sacrifice his needs to try to save others. He made it clear if I go back to using, we will be having that “conversation” and it wouldn’t be one he would want to have, but something he would need to do for himself. He wasn’t going to enable my addictions, nor was he going to be co-dependent. That he is this mentally and emotionally mature makes me respect him even more.
It is now Sunday, December 19th and I am 19 days sober—completely sober. I am learning so much in treatment and through my therapists that I wish I would have learned when I was younger. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) is so simple yet so profound. I’ll probably blog/share some of the things I’ve learned that I want to share with Dillon, and because I’ve had other people curious about what I’m learning.
I have no desire to go back to drinking or using. The idea of losing my family, Tyler, my job, and especially myself has turned me off of using anything to numb out. It definitely hasn’t been easy. Friday was awful—the mean reds kind of day where the world just feels so gray and empty and I can’t even function. Recurring headaches and fatigue kick my ass. I don’t know if it’s my body still detoxing from all those years of abuse or if it’s just my brain trying to recalibrate, but at least now I know it won’t last forever.
I’m focusing on my mental health, my emotions, my relationships. My spirituality, journaling, and my art. God isn’t quite as close as He was when I was using, but if I get quiet and still, I can still hear Him. I have to try harder to not ‘sleepwalk’—zone out on Candy Crush and let myself get overwhelmed by the news. Yet when I deliberately call out to God, Hekate, my Ancestors, and now my angels, they are always there, and give me so much peace, even sober—alleviating one of my biggest fears. That I would not feel them if I wasn’t drunk/high on something.
I’m painting again, finishing pieces I started and never finished and it feels so good. The way out is through…so thankful for my friends and family who have loved me unconditionally even at my worst.