I took a trip to the ER last Sunday. My mom drove me. I finally lost it. Rage and panic swamped me in a Perfect Storm and turned me incoherent and dangerous toward myself. I was not safe. I hurt myself and God forbid I might have hurt others.
The first ER nurse in the psychiatric triage was named “Jason.” Jason walked in and did not ask my name. I sat there a shuddering hump of sweater and anger while he asked what my “problem” was.
“I CUT MY FUCKING ARM. I NEED HELP. HELP ME. I CUT MY FUCKING ARM.” This was all I could get out.
Jason: “The swearing is unnecessary. I am going to need you to control your language before we go further.”
“I CAN’T FUCKING CONTROL MY FUCKING PROFANITY. NO ONE IS HELPING ME. I NEED HELP. FUCKING HELP ME.”
Jason: “Yes. You can control it.”
“I AM GOING TO KICK YOU IN YOUR FUCKING NUTS.”
Jason: “This interview is over.”
I swear to God he flounced out the door.
“GOOD. GO HEAL SOMEONE.”
(Still proud of my parting shot.)
My mom held me down as I tried to throw clipboards. I think I kicked a gurney. Cops followed me into a square shiny room where another cop kept an eye on me. He was awesome and offered me pizza and blankets and generally was a giant protective teddy bear.
I’m in treatment now full-time. I will post more. What is my life now.
Memento Mommy 