There’s a Crack in Everything: Sex, Covid & the Psych Ward
Where was the fucking driftwood?
Shaking and sobbing, I told her that I couldn’t function. That my sleep was for shit, I wasn’t eating much if anything, the tiniest tasks were overwhelming for me. Could I please, PLEASE get some help?
“Are you thinking of ending your life?”
“Have you made any plans to take your life?”
CHRIST, why was I being made to jump through this suicide hoop before anyone would take me seriously?! I have two boys who count on me that I can’t leave and who I love with all my heart, even with this empty heart. I can’t do that to them. Though I understand fully why someone would want to end this misery. I’m no better a person, I just couldn’t. And yet, it seemed I was almost being baited.
If I would just say that I had some semblance of a plan, even a random thought of ending my life, say a large delivery truck is driving by while I’m on a walk and I think, “Well, that would do it.” If I would just tell this nurse that I thought stepping in front of that delivery truck would take my life, that I had thought that thought, THEN I would get some help. Well then FUCK, okay, “I saw a truck when I was on a walk, and I imagined stepping in front of it.”
That’s what she wanted/needed to hear. And, just like that, I was escorted to the reception for inpatient care.
I’d created my own driftwood.
Then things got bad.
In a long story about hitting whatever is below rock bottom, you need to know that first, on the whole, I was a happy kid.
I had a solid nuclear family, a mom and dad, two older brothers and a younger sister. We had two color TVs and one family stereo. We went to the pool every summer, skied a few winter and spring breaks, played tennis year-round. We were an active family.
Dad wasn’t much a part of the day to day; he was busy building his medical practice.
And eyeing women.