My humiliating 72 hour stay – the first step

I was reluctant to write about this. I still am. But I have an agreement with God that I will always be transparent about my life with mental illness as long as I live. He has blessed me beyond measure so I will continue on with my purpose to help those who are dealing with their mental health.

On October 18th, sometime during the afternoon, I called my husband at work. He asked me how I was doing and I told him I wasn’t doing well. I was having a breakdown, an overwhelming feeling of grief and no one died – except whatever was going on in the inside of me. I hadn’t been sleeping because my mind stayed in overdrive. I was crying and couldn’t stop. I was in constant pain. I was being disrespected by the son I said I would call my own. My doctors wouldn’t listen to me. Honestly, I would have rather not been there than to feel like this. I asked my husband would he think less of me or be embarrassed if I went to the hospital to get help? I knew at that very moment, I couldn’t continue deep diving into the pit of hell that was enveloping around me. I needed help. My husband said, “I’d rather you go get the help you need away from me than to not have you here at all.” And with that, he left work early to come and pick me up from home.

We arrived at the hospital approximately 3:30 pm. After waiting in the ER for 7 hours, I told my husband “let’s go home”. I could see the anger and disappointment in his eyes because of how long it was taking to be seen. Because you see … I was not a priority. I know this because when I asked the physician’s assistant where my place was on the list, my name was NOT there. Of course, the trauma patients take precedence, that’s a given. But me thinking of ending my life … who cares? I’ll have to wait.

My husband told me to wait right where I was, he’d be right back. When he came back and sat down, shortly thereafter the nurse manager came to talk to me. She explained to me what the situation was with the other patients but also understood my husband’s POV. I didn’t need to be hooked up to any machines. I didn’t need a trauma room. I just needed to TALK to someone to determine if with my state of mind, did I need to be admitted for observation? We could have had that conversation in an office, a closet or even a bathroom, somewhere that I could tell them how I was feeling. *This is one of the many reasons why I love my husband. He will take care of me by any means necessary.*

“I’d rather you go get the help you need away from me than to not have you here at all.”

Less than 30 minutes later, I was called to the triage area. It took another 30 minutes for the doctor to come and talk to me. He agreed that I should be admitted for a few days to seek treatment. Since my husband couldn’t come back to the area to be with me, I constantly texted him to let him know what was going on. By this time, it was nearing midnight. My husband brought my bag to the area where I was sitting in triage. I was already anxious to be there because of covid. I was on pins and needles, but I had no other choice until I was escorted out of there. I told my husband to go home. It had been a longer day for him than myself. We hugged for a long time. I know he didn’t want to leave me. And I didn’t want him to go. But I needed help.

Tomorrow, I’ll talk about my first day.

Until then … be blessed.