Anyone who’s read my book knows that I’ve spent time in the psych ward. I’ve had the surreal and frightening experience of being placed on a 72 hour hold for danger to self, waiting in a guarded room while a bed in a psych facility is sought, transferred, and being there until my meds adjustment is working.
It sucks. But there’s something worse. Something about a thousand times worse. And that’s watching it happen to someone you love.
I had that experience a couple of weeks ago. I won’t share too many details, except to say that my loved one is doing better and beginning to navigate the terrain of a new diagnosis. But I’m still reeling from the way it felt to know they were in there; to know I was relieved they were there and safe…it gave me a new appreciation for what others went through during my worst times.
So what do you do when you’re the one on the outside? You wait. And wait. You’re patient with the phone calls that say “All better now, come and get me!” when you know you have no power over release time. You wait. You annoy staff (a reasonable amount, in a respectful manner) advocating for quality-of-life accommodations. You wait. You try to take care of yourself (yeah, right, well, maybe drink some water once in a while). You wait.
And when they are released, you pick them up and do what you can to help them take their meds, go to outpatient treatment, and do whatever is needed to decrease the chances of having to go back to inpatient.
And when you’re alone–and only when you’re alone–you cry, and get mad at the universe, and ask your God what the hell they are thinking to give the person you love this kind of burden when they already had many. And you get selfish, and ask your God what the hell they are thinking to put this new thing on you when you already feel stretched thin coping with your own diagnoses.
That’s what you do. I guess. Maybe I’ll figure out more as I go along.
Lori Lynne Armstrong 