A Near Life Experiance

      I was welcomed to the psych ward by the head nurse who immediately realized I was about to throw up following that lovely ambulance ride. He fetched me a garbage bin and then confiscated my belongings, including my cane. Yes, that's right. I wasn't allowed to use my cane at all during my stay. I had tried to kill myself because I couldn't take my  pain anymore, and that was with the cane, so the first step in treating my depression was, logically, to take the cane away. A brilliant first move. Psych ward staff are a paranoid lot as one might imagine. They wouldn't want someone else, or even me, to have a violent outburst with a cane in hand. With that spectacular first impression I was taken into his office for an interview of sorts. 

    He asked me why I tried to commit suicide and I gave him the whole story, but like every member of staff in that ward, he was far more interested in my depression rather than my pain. We came to the conclusion that a big part of it was the expectations that were put on me. Imagine this scenario: someone is suffering for 4 years. Their suffering is made worse by medications that don't help, and make them an immobile potato both physically and mentally. They're suffering to the point where they can't take it, where they don't enjoy life anymore; so they try to kill themselves twice. They want to die. But, despite what they want, all through those 4 years they've been trying their hardest  for those around them. Yet those around them aren't satisfied. They want more than the person's best. The person gives up, because what's the point in trying if your best isn't good enough? Imagine how that person would feel. That's how I felt. The nurse asked me why I didn't tell anyone I was feeling this way. As I mentioned in the last chapter, I did tell people. Quite a few times actually. At one point I felt I was giving so many warnings and nothing was being done, that I went to the kitchen and started cutting myself with a knife in front of a parent. I was trying to show how horrible I felt and that if we kept doing nothing I would get hurt. This was a fact to me, and there was no question that I was quite vocal about my feelings to those involved in my case. The nurse asked me to list the medications I was on. I was hard pressed to name them all as there were so many. I was then informed I'd be going off of all of them except for two. I was left on a very light sleep medication (melatonin) and an antidepressant (cymbalta, I think.) This means I was going to be left with zero pain medications, when I was previously on too many. It was evident I was on too many medications, but taking them all away at once wasn't the answer. Not only was I immediately going off morphine without any weaning, but around 5 other medications were discontinued as well. All at the same time. This would have been a horrible experience in a controlled hospital environment, but I was in a psych ward. This puts these months as a contender among the worst experiences of my life. In this ward I was expected to do the same daily activities as the other... inmates. A psych ward is no place for someone going through extreme withdrawal and pain. There are no doctors immediately available 95% of the time, and the nurses and social workers have no idea how to deal with such a patient. The only equipment they had for me were these tiny kidney basins, to be used as a makeshift bucket for puking. They were no more than 10 inches across and a few inches high. This means every single time I puked, (probably 100 times in total,) I'd partly miss because I had these useless pieces of crap to puke in. Of course, I was doing all of the cleaning.

    It wasn't long before a psychiatrist came in to see me. For my entire stay there was a very stark difference in how the staff saw my depression compared to how I did. They saw my pain and depression as separate entities. They thought I took those pills because I was depressed, not because I was in pain. I saw my alleged depression as a direct result from my chronic pain. Therefore, one cannot treat my depression without treating my pain. This caused disagreements in the way I was treated, and I felt the months I spent at the psych ward were a waste of time. Since it was an extremely uncomfortable place to be, I was quite upset that I was uncomfortable for no reason since nothing was being done to remedy the situation. 

          It was time for me to sit down and speak one of the ward's psychiatrists. As I said. nothing of note came out of it, so there's not much I remember from it; except one question. To paint a picture, this female doctor was morbidly obese and always had a pompous look on her face. The question that stood out to me so much was: "Did you know you almost died?" I answered, "Yes," but what I thought was quite different. I thought: Yes. Yes I know almost died. I tried to kill myself actually, haven't you heard? I took over 60 pills at once including morphine. Of course I almost died. I was in a coma for hours and your stupid mug asks me that, in your matter-of-fact tone? If someone tries to kill themselves, telling them they almost died is encouragement, not a deterrence. It's like saying 'You nearly made it you know. Try a little harder next time.' I tried to commit suicide. Dying is the point you incompetent, condescending, overweight, clueless clown. In case it isn't apparent, I was still quite bitter about the whole being alive thing. In a rare stroke of luck, this moronic doctor wasn't to be my new psychiatrist. I was handed over to someone else.