The familiar smell of the building hit me in the face as I walked through the doors. I made note of it, remembering the last time I’d been a patient. Over a year ago. I had been discharged because I was stable and we had found the right dosage. The right cocktail. I was finding the good days out weighed the bad, the roller coaster had slowed down, and I felt in control.
And then, in December, I had my second miscarriage. The ground slipped out from underneath me and the world turned grey. Nothing seemed exciting anymore, I lost my energy and interest, I felt hopeless, and I started to think about escape.
The peaceful feeling of nothingness.
The freedom from the ache I had in my heart.
My husband was the person who encouraged me to call my psych. After months of sadness, sitting on the couch, looking into nothing. Instead of wasting away I packed on the pounds while I ate my emotions.
He told me I wasn’t ok.
And I wasn’t.
My leg shook and I clasped my hands together to keep them
from visibly shaking while I sat in the too small waiting room and counted down the seconds until my appointment. The air in the room was suffocating me and the smell was making me sick.
In her office I chose a grey chair with arms, comfortably seated across from her. My Psych welcomed me and asked me to go over what had gone on since I last saw her.
I let it all out.
I told her about my dangerous thoughts, the way I felt when I let them take over my brain, swimming around the space in my head, comforting me with the thought of a plan for release.
And she said she was concerned.
We talked about med adjustments, my decline, a new direction. We made a plan.
One I’m still adjusting to.
I’m overwhelmed with feelings of hopelessness. I’m frustrated that I’m back to where I had fought so hard to climb out of. A hole so deep I couldn’t see the top.
This space is familiar but uncomfortable.
It’s lonely and frightening.
And it’s dark.