Two months into college and the DP was terrible. Nothing felt really, everything felt like a dream, and I could not handle my constant switch between anxiety and numb. It was either everything or nothing. It was terror and elation. I have history of cutting, but on one particular night, I wanted to tear myself to shreds. I did not necessarily want to die, but I wanted to cut the DP out of me. Combine that with being very drunk, I was on a very dark path.
So I made a call to a local hotline. I thought maybe we would talk things out, but before I knew it cops had shown up to escort me to the hospital. My friends were staring at me as it happened, and I tried to explain to them but I did not know what to say, so they saw me dragged off in a cop car.
I arrived at the hospital and was placed in the ER with about 4 guards constantly watching the room. Other patients were there too, one was strapped down to a bed and constantly screaming. They sedated her with something, I'm not sure what. You weren't allowed to move off the bed without telling a security guard, and every time you even shifted they would look at you.
I was transferred into a small room with two chairs to be evaluated. I ended up staying in that room for about 6 hours(from 3 to 9 am) in that one chair. There was a security guard outside the room. The doctor said the hospitalization would be voluntary, but she recommended it for me. Of course, if I was admitted, I could not leave whenever I wanted to-the doctors decide when you leave. But first I had to call my mom, who knew nothing about the cutting or how bad the DP has gotten. I actually cried speaking to her, something I haven't done in months.
They took me to the third floor in a wheelchair. I had a physical exam and a lot of other vitals and bloodwork. Later I found out that I had come in with a .8 BAC. And that wasn't even the height of my drinking. They took my shoes, laces, and every personal belonging. I was shown my room and the rest of the floor, which was designed as a circle. Everything was monitored, including your affect, you were checked on every 30 minutes, and vitals every couple of hours. I was woken up a couple times to my blood being drawn as well. There were no doors to the bathroom and windows in nearly every room so nurses could look in. Doors were hardly ever closed.
There were so many meetings with social workers, counselors, psychiatrists, clinical psychologists, nurses, etc. Most of them had heard of DP, but surely never seen someone hospitalized for it. One counselor said I was the most fascinating case he's had. He worked so hard to help me, I actually felt like someone tried to understand me and DP. Besides that, if you wanted to get out, you had to attend group therapy. Yet besides all that, there was hardly anything to do except walk in circles and lay in bed. Which I did for 6 days.
The medicine was crazy. There were times I'd be knocked out for almost whole days from the various drugs. The medicine was switched so frequently I could not keep up with it. We ended on Remeron, which supposedly targets trauma in the brain. The psych doctor said that, while I have no trauma I can remember, something happened in my childhood that caused trauma that needed to be remedied. I still don't know if I believe her but it's better than the crap I've received from doctors at home.
I met many people. Many from jail, including one who served time for attempted murder, mothers who had tried to kill themselves and leave their children behind, a boy who heard voices, a manic woman, and many other individuals who had spent nearly a month on that small floor. Everyone was so kind, but no one had what I had, and so I felt like there was no one I could relate to. At one point, a man was sedated and hauled away for smashing things in his room and threatening to kill people on the floor.
After many meetings discussing coping skills, my diagnosis, and plans moving forward, they let me go. It was only 6 days but felt like years. It's an experience I'll never forget, and I can't say that I won't ever be there again. While I am more stable than before, dangerous thoughts come and go. I'm off meds now because I needed a break from everything, and while the cops took away my knife, thoughts of self harm still linger. I don't know what my life will look like moving forward. I don't know when and how the DP will attack. I don't know if it'll ever stop.
I wanted to share this here because I wanted readers to know that DP is scary and dangerous, especially if unchecked. If you need help, get it before it is too late. Had I not made my call I do not know where I would be.
I can't say things get better, but you do get stronger.
So I made a call to a local hotline. I thought maybe we would talk things out, but before I knew it cops had shown up to escort me to the hospital. My friends were staring at me as it happened, and I tried to explain to them but I did not know what to say, so they saw me dragged off in a cop car.
I arrived at the hospital and was placed in the ER with about 4 guards constantly watching the room. Other patients were there too, one was strapped down to a bed and constantly screaming. They sedated her with something, I'm not sure what. You weren't allowed to move off the bed without telling a security guard, and every time you even shifted they would look at you.
I was transferred into a small room with two chairs to be evaluated. I ended up staying in that room for about 6 hours(from 3 to 9 am) in that one chair. There was a security guard outside the room. The doctor said the hospitalization would be voluntary, but she recommended it for me. Of course, if I was admitted, I could not leave whenever I wanted to-the doctors decide when you leave. But first I had to call my mom, who knew nothing about the cutting or how bad the DP has gotten. I actually cried speaking to her, something I haven't done in months.
They took me to the third floor in a wheelchair. I had a physical exam and a lot of other vitals and bloodwork. Later I found out that I had come in with a .8 BAC. And that wasn't even the height of my drinking. They took my shoes, laces, and every personal belonging. I was shown my room and the rest of the floor, which was designed as a circle. Everything was monitored, including your affect, you were checked on every 30 minutes, and vitals every couple of hours. I was woken up a couple times to my blood being drawn as well. There were no doors to the bathroom and windows in nearly every room so nurses could look in. Doors were hardly ever closed.
There were so many meetings with social workers, counselors, psychiatrists, clinical psychologists, nurses, etc. Most of them had heard of DP, but surely never seen someone hospitalized for it. One counselor said I was the most fascinating case he's had. He worked so hard to help me, I actually felt like someone tried to understand me and DP. Besides that, if you wanted to get out, you had to attend group therapy. Yet besides all that, there was hardly anything to do except walk in circles and lay in bed. Which I did for 6 days.
The medicine was crazy. There were times I'd be knocked out for almost whole days from the various drugs. The medicine was switched so frequently I could not keep up with it. We ended on Remeron, which supposedly targets trauma in the brain. The psych doctor said that, while I have no trauma I can remember, something happened in my childhood that caused trauma that needed to be remedied. I still don't know if I believe her but it's better than the crap I've received from doctors at home.
I met many people. Many from jail, including one who served time for attempted murder, mothers who had tried to kill themselves and leave their children behind, a boy who heard voices, a manic woman, and many other individuals who had spent nearly a month on that small floor. Everyone was so kind, but no one had what I had, and so I felt like there was no one I could relate to. At one point, a man was sedated and hauled away for smashing things in his room and threatening to kill people on the floor.
After many meetings discussing coping skills, my diagnosis, and plans moving forward, they let me go. It was only 6 days but felt like years. It's an experience I'll never forget, and I can't say that I won't ever be there again. While I am more stable than before, dangerous thoughts come and go. I'm off meds now because I needed a break from everything, and while the cops took away my knife, thoughts of self harm still linger. I don't know what my life will look like moving forward. I don't know when and how the DP will attack. I don't know if it'll ever stop.
I wanted to share this here because I wanted readers to know that DP is scary and dangerous, especially if unchecked. If you need help, get it before it is too late. Had I not made my call I do not know where I would be.
I can't say things get better, but you do get stronger.
