I don’t quite know what to say – or even if I should say anything at all. I don’t know who all reads this (though you should comment right now and tell me if you do, just so I know – I’ve declared it delurking week, just because, you know, if I get all personal, I want to know who is here) and I’ve lately learned that being too candid with the wrong people can get you thrown into hell.

Monday, I was into the fourth or fifth solid day of an unbelievably bad panic attack. It would not go away, no matter what I did, and all the things I usually do when in a situation like that didn’t work. I was sitting in Davis Library on the first floor, I’d finished reading my portion of Daphnus and Chloe for Classics, and was trying to get caught up for my Friday midterm in Economics…all of a sudden I just felt this wave overtake me and I mentally fell over, got knocked out. It was 20 minutes til class and I packed up my things and instead of walking toward Room 104, I headed across campus and requested a walk in appointment with a psychologist at Student Health. It was evident that my medication wasn’t working correctly, or enough, and I needed to be doing MORE to deal with all of my anxiety syndromes and depression…I felt overwhelmed, completely – and absolutely out of control of my emotions. Everything was broken and I couldn’t fix anything.

And the crisis counselor thought I was a danger to myself, and had me checked into the Crisis Psych ward at the University hospital.

The second I got there, I knew it was not going to help – in fact it made me much, much worse. Flourescent lights, people walking around playing with themselves and being, generally, crazy; the loud television blaring Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune and Dancing With the Stars… I asked to sign myself out, and they gave me the papers, but said I wouldn’t be getting out for at least three days. Sparklepants was there, and I couldn’t stop sobbing, because the bare, bare room was so terrifying, and they had put me on the highest level of suicide watch – they said that the fact that I was crying was proof that I was “upset” and so they definitely needed to keep me. They let Sparklepants go home and get me a book, because all I had was Thomas Merton and I’d been reading him for the last three days. They let her come back for twenty seconds to say goodbye to me and I collapsed there in my bare room, alone. They never told me she brought me things, I had to go out and ask, and then they remembered to go through them. They never gave me my toothbrush or toothpaste – it was a danger to me, somehow, or my saline solution for my contacts…no electronics (though a doctor did give me written permission to keep my laptop, but I wasn’t allowed to have DVDs, because I might have broken them and slit my wrists), but refused to give me my cord (hanging). I snuck my cell phone out of my purse before they went through it, and was thrilled that they had to dig through my sobby, snotty tissues to make sure I didn’t have anything “bad” with me. They took my spiral bound notebooks, my diary, but left me with my pens. They took my iPod and my incredibly nice headphones that I am super careful with and threw them into a box, all tangled up with the cord from my laptop. When I finally fell asleep, they woke me up to check my vitals, then again to stick a needle in my arm and take blood. They shook me awake to tell me they had to take my blood. There were no clocks, so I don’t know what time it was, but it must have been around 4 in the morning.

At eight in the morning a med student came in to wake me up for a meeting with a team of doctors, who instantly made comments about not understanding why the hell I was in there, and I didn’t belong there. They’d get me out that day, they said. One of them wanted to talk to my mom and Sparklepants that morning. The nurses hated me because visiting hours were 5-8pm, and even though mom and Sparklepants had been at the hospital since 6am, they were allowed to come up at 9, and stay until I was discharged. While I was in the bathroom they bitched about the fact that I hadn’t been to any groups. Groups like planting flowers in little dixie cups and decorating them. Groups like coloring my feelings or balancing my checkbook. I stayed in my room and waited and waited and waited, and the doctor came in and said the paperwork was going through and I’d be out by 3pm. I was so incredibly relieved. And I got out, and filled a scrip for something to help me sleep (that doesn’t work) and an upped dosage of one of my medications… I went to a psychiatrist the next day to deal with my meds and she tweaked them as well (all I had wanted in the first place), which cost me 45$ that I didn’t have.

And now it’s Sunday. My mom left this morning. I have no idea what to do about this semester at school. I have a 2pm appointment with a psychologist tomorrow that’s going to set me back another $35…And nothing is getting better. I know, give it time, give it time, but I can’t stop freaking out. I’m just…

Messed up. And I can’t imagine how to get un-messed up.

And my babies are losing in overtime, and that’s never good.