We're Going to Talk About Hospitalization

I'm reading a book right now called "Take Charge of Bipolar Disorder." If you want to get technical, I've been reading it for probably over a year. I'll read a chapter here and there, put it down for a few months, then pick it up like I never stopped reading it.

It's an easy enough book to pick up and put back down, and if you're looking for insight into how to help your bipolar loved one, I highly recommend this book. I just finished the chapter on hospitalizations, and I'd like to highlight some points while going through some experiences of my own.

The chapter begins by talking about how hospitalizations are a normal part of a bipolar person's life, although we may feel shame about them. It also discusses how it can be traumatic for our loved ones. It does not touch on how it can be traumatic for the bipolar person itself, though, and I was extremely disappointed in that. I do understand that the hospital is meant for rest for an ill person, whether physically ill or mentally ill. But when you go onto a psychiatric unit, you're entering into locked doors, getting scanned for weapons. Personally, my last time on the psychiatric unit, I had to strip in front of two nurses and my body was searched. I was also looked over for any bruises and cuts. I wasn't allowed to have my own clothes - not even my own underwear. I had to wear hospital mesh underwear. (You know, ladies, like you're given after you give birth!)

The atmosphere is in psychiatric unit is meant to be peaceful. The colors of the walls and bedding are peaceful. I was given three meals and snacks at certain times of the day. The nurses monitored what I ate. I was given a notebook to journal in. I was encouraged to go to the groups on the unit. (If I didn't go to the groups, I had to stay in my room.) I wasn't allowed to bring my outside reading materials or journals in. I had to use the little golf pencil to write in my notebook. I finally stole a pen from the art room, I was so pissed off with that little golf pencil I was supposed to turn in each night. My meds were closely monitored.

This is all great until discharge. At home, a person is supposed to have the same calm setting once they are discharged. I went back to chaos. I was expected to pick up right where everything left off, and I thought I could thrive on that. I thought being needed would be enough for me. I thought having everything laid on me was what would prove to me that I had enough to live for.

It was spring of 2020, though, and Safer at Home had started. Suddenly I'm stuck at home trying to get Matthew to go to his online classes, Tea was bummed because her senior year was basically over before she even got to enjoy the final festivities that were planned, and now I'm expected to be the cleaning lady because I'm going to have all this time on my hands because I can't go anywhere?!? Anyone who knows me, knows that hiring a maid is probably the best thing one can do when it comes to my house and cleaning!

I was still depressed and a mess. I tried to suck it up and pretend like everything was normal, whatever the heck normal was. I wish I would have stayed in that hospital longer; on the other hand, I wish I never would have went in there. I think that might be a common feeling for anybody who's ever been in a psych ward. There's a yearning for wanting to stay in there and hide from the world. On the flip side, you never want to go in the first place because it's so much harder once you get out.

Ope, you know what, I lied. There's a sentence at the end of the hospitalization chapter that states that even if hospitalizations are a normal part of the bipolar life, they can still be traumatic. Does that mean I have to go through and rewrite this blog?

Until next week's dirt...