#after struggling for the 20 years ive been alive i can Finally take some real big steps to getting better and getting my life under conteol

[kaustic]

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[godtier-rose]

healing is hard

I’ve recently went through something so unreal to me that I’m still honestly pretty emotional and still working through it.  I kept a little measly journal while I was in a psych ward, and I have now been home for almost a week and have typed up all six days I had spent there. This is going to be such a LONG post, but if you are struggling, or just curious about what a psych ward was like from my point of view, go on and read this. 

I want others to know that they aren't alone with their suicidal thoughts. I feel shy and a little embarrassed talking about mine, and my depression, but thats what landed me in there. I didn't ask for help. 

My sister gave me “It’s Kind of a Funny Story” while I was in there, and it just felt nice to read something that someone else went through that I was then going through. Thats why I wrote every day in my little booklet while I was in there.

I was given a second chance that others do not get. People have already denied my experience. I don’t care. People who try to tell you that what happened to you wasn’t real, literally don’t matter. I didn’t try to kill myself to prove anything to anyone. I didn’t plan on surviving. But I lived. 

Here are my days, as best recalled and sloppily written as I can manage, not being the best writer: 

day 0 - last day

the walk to publix is simple. after spending an hour or so browsing the web for lethal doses of drugs, I settle on tylenol pm. 8 is dangerous. I can do that, I tell myself. I buy a bottle and a lunchable ( I have beer at home right? I think so), last meal goals? I almost run home, i’m grossly excited to die. sickening. but I was told one that I would never be remembered. I feel at peace. I won’t have to think about living after i’m gone, not about my depression, not about my feelings, money, stress, no consequences. living is so hard and dying is so easy.

no one else is home, I planned this perfectly. one handful, one beer. repeat. repeat. feel dizzy. fall around the room. knock shit over. people come home. I babble nonsense and say i’m going to bed. my note has been written. I tell no one what i’m doing, I don’t want to be stopped. I don’t want to survive this. no texts and no tweets, people will find out eventually. who cares, not my problem anymore.

drink. swallow more pills. drink. swallow. I stopped counting at 9 beers and 20 something tylenol. I hadn’t eaten all day, my lunchable is long forgotten. i’m a 5’1”, 98 pounds, this should do it. I don’t remember how much I ingest after that.

I black out, finally. i’m ready to die.

day 0 part 2 - not yet

and then???????

I wake up. mouth dry. vision so blurry I panic. I can barely stand. I think i’m going to be sick but nothing comes out. breathing hurts. everything hurts, everything is heavy, wavy,confusing.

i didn’t die. I was given another chance. panic, my body is shutting down, I text my sister, I call poison control, i’m too scared to dial 911. i’m not important or worth it.

I decide to get a fucking uber.(someone told me an ambulance ride is $1,000, fuck that) he pulls up and goes “...hospital???” and i’m standing there, swaying. Yes. please. he freaks out and seems confused, but drives fast and rushes me in. a man has me fill out paperwork and then he asks what’s wrong. I tell him I swallowed more than 20 tylenol to kill myself. I don’t remember how many I  swallowed after 20, I don’t know how much I drank after that. he calls out a stretcher and i’m rushed away. all of my things are taken from me. i’m changed into a hospital gown (butt cheeks OUT, hospital gowns are embarrassing ) they take my blood, they put an IV into me (I almost pass out when I feel the cold go inside my vein, what the fuck) I don’t know what they pump into me but it feels weird and i’m freaked out. tabs are placed all over my body, i’m hooked up to an EKG machine. charcoal tablets( I think ? something for my stomach or liver they say? I'm not a doctor I don't know ) are taken. the nurse asks “honey why would you do this? why are you sad? what is there to be sad about?” a lot. she says i’m lucky that i’m still alive, the amount of alcohol and acetaminophen I consumed and still had in my body should have killed me or shut down my liver. I wanted to say “that was the goal” but I shut up as she took my vitals.

hours pass, I ask for my phone and they say I can look at it once...only once, and make it just a few minutes. then they put it in a bag with my clothes and purse. nurses and doctors walk past my room and peek in and whisper. one finally goes “is this her? the suicide ?” a woman from another room yells back “Yeah that’s the baker act”. i’m embarrassed. nurses and doctors keep stopping by my room to look in and I keep trying to avoid their eyes. I ask to use the restroom and I have to pee with the door open in the middle of the hospital, i’m not allowed to close it (suicide means 24 hour watch).I hate this. I ask my nurse if i’m going home tonight, she says “no baby, we can’t let you go home” I start crying. I call my sister from the nurses flip phone and tell her i’m not coming home.

it’s almost midnight now, hospital food is awful and i’m watching chopped on the tv above my bed. another nurse told me god saved my life. another tells me i’m “too young to be sad”.

“the baker act is being transferred” that’s what i’m called, i’m the suicide. the baker act. another stretcher comes, i’m loaded on. another hospital. I get to ride in an ambulance for the first time, the paramedics think it’s funny when I tell them that I took an uber to the hospital. “I bet it was cheaper, that’s for sure.”

they take me 10 minutes away, to a place that has a mental health unit. I have to sit downstairs in a room to wait for a bed. I go to the bathroom and a nurse yells at me and he slams the door open, saying “you can’t close this, you have to go with the door open!” i’m given a turkey sandwich and a little fruit cup, sitting in a reclining chair, it’s 2 am when they say I can go upstairs now. a screaming man was brought in when I was leaving, the nurses yelling at him saying he’s here because he was found naked in the bushes waving a samurai sword. I laugh and a nurse asks me what’s so funny.

I meet someone up on the 6th floor, the psych ward floor. She takes me to a room and I have to strip down. she marks a body chart with my tattoos, my burns, my cuts. i’m asked for the millionth time why i’m there. she gives me a new gown and brings me to my room. it’s a plain as it gets, and my roommate is asleep. it’s 2:30am.

I lay down in the most basic bed with this pillow that’s literally filled with something paper like. I sleep like shit.

day 1 in the psych ward

i am woken up again at 6am for vitals. I fall back to sleep until my roommate and I wake up to an announcement at 8:30. we stay in bed and talk a little. she’s here for swallowing 50 xanax, I say “shit, you beat me, I blacked out at 20 something tylenol” she’s impressed. she’s a 46 year old mother. kara. a doctor comes to see us and talks about the severity of what we both have done, tells us what meds they will be putting us on. we leave our room and look around, a nurse tells us we missed breakfast, but she gets us some cereal and juice. this place is full of interesting people, I watch in awe. a woman (marlene)keeps saying she’s frank sinatras daughter and that someone keeps burning her with cigarettes (no smoking allowed and she just yelled that it was happening just then, when no one was around her) another woman (isabelle) claims she works for the phone company, and takes one of the hospitals phones and takes it apart (breaks it) and says she got the bug out. a man (joe) won’t stop yelling for nurses. another woman (mary) keeps petting everyone’s hair. me and kara stick close to each other that morning. I speak with a case manager, who tells me i’ll be here a few days because of how severe my case is. whatever. I call my sister on the cord phone they have on the wall, ask her to bring me some books and clothes. I feel embarrassed to be walking around in the hospital gown. I tell her “it says we have arts and crafts today at 1:45”, she can’t stop laughing, “are you fucking serious???” it literally says Arts and Crafts on the daily events whiteboard.

I ask a nurse if I can shower, she gives me a towel and unlocks the shower door, where an open shower with no cover or curtain is, but I can lock the door.a broken soap dispenser holds a shampoo/bodywash combo (LAME), and there’s a few bandaids on the shower floor. I have to stand on my tiptoes to get close to the water. this sucks. after my shower it’s “process group” time, where kara and i get to meet some of the others, talk about our feelings, the works. kristie, sherri, carl, natalie, andrew, and myself and kara are the most sane and coherent. we all sit near each other at lunch. kristie is here for cutting herself, sherri for OD’ing, carl for suicidal thoughts, andrew for trying to slit his throat on drugs. I️ get mystery meatloaf for lunch. kara asks the nurse where to get a toothbrush after lunch, the nurse goes “maybe if you left your room and ask, you’d get one earlier.” I get defensive of my roomie and say “well ma’am i’m sorry we didn’t exactly pack for this, the plan wasn’t to make it here alive” kara, kristie, carrie, and andrew lose it, they can’t stop laughing. the nurse walks away.

someone tells me that after lunch a woman comes around with a menu, and you can order your lunch for the next day. I order chicken parm and mac n cheese and breakfast for others and cereal for myself. I order dinner for kara because she’s napping and I don’t want her to be cursed with the mystery meatloaf again.

after lunch is arts and crafts, where I make my sister a bracelet and then help a man from the other wing make a bracelet for his daughter.

after arts and crafts is a bit of free time, me and kara sit together and talk with a few of the others. the days feel so long here. my sister brings me clothes, makeup, toiletries and books, but i’m not allowed to see her. she gave me “Its kind of a funny story” and said that I️ had to read it because the kid gets baker acted. she brought me the extra clothes and stuff I asked for, I wander around and give clothes to some of my friends who aren’t able to have someone bring them any. I get conditioner, face wash, shampoo, body wash, and lotion, and become the toiletry mom who hands out and shares it with everyone who wants to use it in the shower.

eventually it’s dinner, and since we only got to order for the next day, kara and I are stuck with meatloaf again. I call elspeth after dinner and tell her about my day, tell her not to tell anybody i’m here, not even my parents, tell her to tell them my phone is dead and i’m at a friends, I don’t want anyone to know yet. i’ll y’all when i’m out and ready. she says she got mad and told some people what I did, but they didn’t believe her. that’s fine, I tell her they can never contact me ever again because they don’t care. I have nothing to prove. I lived and am now locked in a god damn mental ward. I have more important things in my life besides caring about people acting like they know what I did and why I did it. my goal was to be dead and not have to deal with this, but I got another shot so let me fucking be. i tell her there is visitation tomorrow from 6pm-8pm. I tell her that one of my friends was going to hang out with me, and that I can’t make it. also that I was messaging another friend and that she can tell him what happened, he will be understanding and caring. (shoutout to my sister for holding everything together while I could only contact the outside world through her via a phone with a cord)

after that I lie in bed and read my toradora manga elspeth also brought me. vitals are checked. a doctor ask me how i’m feeling, etc.

eventually we get snack time? which is juice, popcorn, bananas, and bread with PB&J.

finally it’s bedtime, my first day is complete. this all feels surreal. I write everything in the back of a booklet I was given earlier. I sleep like shit again.

day two, the days are still so long

6 am, vitals again. back to sleep. an announcement at 8 am gets me and Kara awake, it says there’s “grooming” taking place, where you’re allowed to shave your facial hair or armpits in front of the nurses, in a sink, and also they have mouth wash. great.

8:30, breakfast. the board says that there’s pet therapy today, and visitation tonight!!!!

process group again. I shower. lunch. my food isn’t as awful as the meatloaf but it’s still hospital food. carl tells me I have to go to the meds window to ask for my meds, but warns me they will have me sign a paper. they don’t tell you, but the paper is a voluntary admission form that once you sign, your baker act is no longer valid and you can only leave if a doctor says you can. I say that’s BS because I wanna go home after my 72 hours. he says if I don’t sign, they just re-baker act you. no way. I go to the window and ask for my meds, and the nurse gives me a paper and says “sign this to get your medication”. it’s the voluntary admission form. I ask her if I sign this, what happens. she said it’s the “first step towards getting better”. I said “if I sign this my baker act is removed and i’m becoming a voluntary patient right?” she says “well....yes, but it’s the first step towards getting better.” I ask her what happens if I don’t sign it. she goes “....well then you will probably be here a longer time :(“ I end up signing the papers, i’m fucked either way. I didn’t even want to take prozac or be i’m this place.

pet therapy gives us a golden retriever named JR who is so cute and licks my face. I love him. it brightened a lot of people’s days. after dinner we get visitation, everyone eats fast and me and kara stay behind to help the nurses clean up.

i’m so excited for visitation. i️ told my sister she can bring someone with her. kara’s family and daughter are coming too, I get to meet them. elspeth comes and brings an old friend, I hug her and him for so long, it feels so good. you find out who is really there for you. I tell them all about my crazy day and how there was a bra left on the floor in the public room and how people keep acting out. I give elspeth the bracelet I made her in arts and crafts, I meet kara’s family. it made my day. after visitation is snacks, a young girl comes in and I feel instantly protective of her. I ask her if she has clothes and she says no, so after I sneak extra snacks for her, I run to my room and gather up a shirt and pants, lotion, and some of the graham crackers packs i snuck from snack time, I run back and give them all to her, tell her that i’m in room 604 and she can ask me for anything. I tell her how this place runs, as if i’m a pro even though i’ve been here for 2 days. she’s so thankful, her name is Destinee.

eventually, it’s bedtime again. I journal and fall into another shitty sleep.

day threeeeee...get me out of here

once again, 6 am vitals. back to sleep until 8 am announcements. I decide to get my butt up and shave my armpits in a sink during grooming time. we aren’t allowed to shave our legs, but whatever i’ll take what I can get.

my day follows a constant schedule. always breakfast at 8:30, process group, I shower, the board tells me today is more arts and crafts and bingo tonight. kara, kristie and I sit in our room and talk about cam girls and people who buy feet pictures. kara is fascinated that kristie and I know so much about the dirty web.

I start reading “It’s Kind of a Funny Story” and it’s so similar to my situation. Craig is baker acted and he’s taken to the 6th floor (i’m on the 6th floor, are all psych wards there??). he talks about the food, the people, even the shape of the ward (shaped like an H), which is what my psych ward is shaped like ! it’s a good book, I feel like the author right now, as I type up my experiences. being here is honestly so crazy I just had to write about it.

there’s another group and this time it’s a mix of all the wings, (I am in the East Wing, the west wing is the violent or dangerous patients.) one guy from the west wing tries to start a fight with Cheryl, the rec therapist. he leaves angry.

in arts and crafts I become notorious for being able to find any letter bead asked of me, maria from the west wing says any letter and I dig through the bead box and find it for her. I help another guy make a ring. I make a bracelet for someone who cares about me.

lunch is late because the guy who got mad during group, started a fight in the dining hall and all of us from the east wing watched from the window. he threw his tray and food was everywhere. we see him on the floor and find out he was probably sedated.

we eat, continue our day. I read my book and hang in my bed. kara’s family brought magazines for us, so we share those and read about the outside world. I miss my phone and the internet. I talk to a doctor who says I won’t be going home this weekend. (it’s friday today, so she says maybe monday because of how severe my case is.) kara gets the same news. the doctors all say “well imagine how bad it would look if we release you now and you kill yourself, you were in our care, that would be on our hands.” what a lame excuse.

later is dinner, our table always consists of the same group of people, a nurse says “why do you all sit together always???” we love it. we laugh and all share what we have witch each other.  

bingo is next, where carl says you can win prizes, and he’s gonna try to win some deodorant because the nurses keep refusing to give anyone any. that’s so sad. I win a game and give carl the deodorant, he says I didn’t have to do that.

snacks. then bed.

day four!!!!!

same basic schedule, except today it says game day for our activity.  

we get to the dining hall and it’s decked out with a wii, basket ball hoops, a ping pong table, and a bunch of other board games. andrew and I play wii bowling, and then I play jenga with kara.

kristie and carl have gone home, I miss them already but I hope they are doing okay. a new guy named paul joins us all, we tell him what’s up. me, destinee, sherri, and paul all sit on the hallway floor and talk about crazy shit. a new woman named virgina walks around and spills her tea everywhere, talking about being american and carrying a stack of 8 books that she occasionally reads out loud to nobody in particular.

we have a different night nurse, his name is richard and he’s literally the best. he tells us at snack time that he’s opened the “patio” (a gated in balcony connected to the dining hall that none of the nurses ever feel like opening because they don’t want to watch us) I literally run and andrew makes fun of the faces i’m making because i’m so excited to breathe outside air.

after that, richard pulls out a box full of movies and say we can all have a movie night in the community tv living room. everyone decides on jeepers creepers 2. it was a great night.

I continue to sleep like shit, and I have a dream about my ex.

day 5! when can I leave???

it’s sunday and kara has to miss her mothers surprise party. we want to go home! there aren’t even any case managers here today, so we can’t even talk to anyone. we MIGHT go home tomorrow, we are told. not for sure. sherri goes home tomorrow!!! I give her one of my sweaters to keep and we exchange numbers for when we are on the outside.

football is on the community tv and I call my friend and say “watch this, your team is gonna win and this other team is gonna lose.” his team wins and I can’t stop laughing, I was just kidding but it somehow worked.

my day still follows the basic schedule.

day 6: FALSE HOPE

i’m not going home today! lame!!!!! a doctor tells me there’s no discharge order for me today, but there’s one for tomorrow! i’ll take it.

the board says today is music and drum therapy. also there will be games tonight in the dining hall.

the loud guy who yells constantly, joe, is leaving today. we all secretly cheer when he leaves, because he just yelled at people to make his bed and to come to his room. now i can read without having to here someone yelling “NURSEEEEEEE” down the hall every 3 minutes.

drum therapy is fun, we all get to sit and bang in drums to describe how we are feeling.

music therapy is just “pick one song on youtube and toni the rec therapist will play it on the TV” I pick human by the killers.

kara and I play jenga for games night, it’s our thing now. richard is here again and we are so happy, that means patio and movie night. my last night is spent surrounded by my support group as we laugh on the patio, sharing a blanket with kara as we watch Disturbia, and drawing pictures for destinee until it’s time for bed. I make sure I have everyone’s numbers written in the back of my booklet. I ask the meds window for something to help me sleep, i’m too anxious and know I won’t fall asleep tonight. they give me ativan ? and I go to bed. I finally don’t sleep like shit.

Day 7: Freedom

IM GOINNNG HOMEEEE!!!!! 

I wake up excited and make sure I get together my belongings. I’m visited by doctors and case managers, nurses give me plastic bags to put stuff in. I make sure I give nurse millie a big hug. kara isnt leaving until tomorrow, so i give her a big hug too. the community board says tonight is karaoke night, and I feel bad that I have to miss it, but I leave before lunch. the hospital drives me home in a van, and i’m so excited when I step outside. I start crying and the driver brings me home. I cry again. I take the worlds longest shower and I go get some chick fil a. I sit outside for hours. I hold baby kitty and start crying. I check all my social media. I reply to texts. I sit my mom down and tell her what happened. I do not tell my dad or my brother. my stepdad is in germany and I will tell him when he’s home. ———- afterthoughts:

    the mental health system is fucked. not one doctor or therapist or psychiatrist really helped anyone in that psych ward. if you asked for underwear or deodorant the nurses wouldn’t want to give you any, they said “well you have one pair of underwear already.” some nurses and doctors were kind, but not one of them had any type of sensitivity or empathy. my first three days there, half the nurses assumed I was one of the drug addicts and kept trying to give me nicotine patches and tried having me go to AA meetings. in group “therapy” we were asked how we felt and that was it. the doctors asked us from 1-10 our depression and anxiety, and then gave us meds. we were told if we tried to leave after our 72 hour baker act, that we would just be re-baker acted and be there longer. asking questions was like a game of “which nurse do we ask so that they don’t say no or ignore us” I was not given any type of one on one sessions with a therapist. I was just repeatedly asked “why would you do this? what do you have to be sad about?” they made an appointment for 7 days after I left, never contacted my sister, and let me leave. I swore every night when I prayed (I feel cheesy but I also feel like I owe god my life at this point) that when i’m out, I will put together a box of clothes and books and stuff for arts and crafts and game nights. they have six books and hardly any crafts, and almost no clothes for people who come in with nothing and have to wear the hospital robes. people deserve better. everyone in there survived something that others don’t get to, people need help. this felt like the hospital just wanted our money for keeping us there longer. it’s not fair. I felt like a prisoner. everyone did. a man raped his roommate in our wing and all they did was move him to the west wing. kara and I had to ask to have our room locked from the outside so that we didn’t have to keep going to bed scared.

it felt surreal, but now i’m home and want to help in any way I can. i’m blessed to have met my roommate, we just went to church together and had a fake thanksgiving with my family and her daughter. we call each other every day. i’ve only been home 6 days, but every day I remind myself that i’m alive for a reason. I take my meds. I text my friends. I do my makeup and eat every day. i’m finally 102 pounds and not 94 pounds. I have grand openings for work lined up. i’m going to puerto rico with my church for a missions trip in a few months, to help with hurricane relief. i’m going to help as many people as I can.

I hope that writing all of this just kinda helps. I don’t want people to think they are alone. I did not plan to live, I planned to die. I didn’t die. there are people who literally said i’m faking it. but those people don’t matter. I didn’t get drunk and swallow over 20 tylenol pm and survive, and spend 6 days in the hell that was that psych ward, to have anyone tell me my experience didn’t happen or was for attention. I don’t care if you are trying to die or if you commit and survive, you’re important and deserve care, attention, and help. I deserved every hug and kiss and call and text from people when I was out of there. I have such an amazing support system. I have friends who aren’t judging me, who say “i’m so happy you’re alive emily, let’s hang out. i’m so glad you failed, I love having you in my life.”

I have only told hardly a few people, this is my public account of as much as I can remember. I don’t want any pity. I lived.

 I’m going to keep living. I’m going to work hard, I’m going to buy nice clothes and makeup, i’m going to travel and open new stores for my job, I’m going to pour myself out and connect and train my teams, I’m going to stay up late watching anime and cartoons, and eat junk food and party with my friends, i’m going to get tattoos, pet every cat, make art and finish school, i’m going to hang with my sister and my family, and i’m going to heal and find love and care for myself and for another person again. i’m gonna give as much as I can and love and be kind. I’m not perfect but neither are you. We all have flaws so just damn love and embrace and smile at each other. Help each other.

Thank you to everyone who has been so patient and caring and supportive. I love you all so much and I can’t wait to continue my life with a new passion and outlook. 💘

[wingletblackbird]

Diabetes Challenge: Day 2

My Diagnosis Story

I’m one of those rare diabetics who were too foolish, blind, or hopeless to go to the doctor within a sensible length of time. I’m told that to get diagnosed through DKA as bad as mine is uncommon. I’ve actually been told there’s no medical explanation I’m alive. I walked into the ER under my own power with an ABG of 6.38, and a blood glucose level of 32.4, (or about 600 for those who aren’t using the Canadian system.)

I first noticed the symptoms of diabetes when I was a week or so into a brutal accelerated calculus course. I was studying something like eight hours a day, and thought that symptoms like blurred vision, and fatigue were just me pushing myself too hard. Also, I drink a lot of water as a rule, since I once passed a kidney stone, so I didn’t even notice I was drinking more than usual, and just attributed the frequent urination to my drinking habits. *sigh*  I always drank more than most people in my life anyway. 

In any case, I finished my exam, and went to by grandparents house the next day to celebrate my nineteenth birthday. We indulged in lots of stuff that was particularly bad for me: milkshakes, cake, cookies, chocolate, chips, sprite, coke, and orange juice. As you can imagine, I felt terrible the next day. I assumed this was because I hadn’t seen the sun in about a month, so I decided to go swimming. On the way, I used my birthday money to buy myself an Orange Julius from Dairy Queen: Not good. I drank it all, and it was, naturally, the largest size, then took the bus to the pool. As I jumped into the water, I experienced extreme chest pain, and rapid breathing. I honestly assumed it was an asthma attack, since, for me, it can be stimulated by exercise and cold, and that water had been freezing. I was scared, but I really didn’t think it could be that bad.

After about an hour just lying down, I realised that I didn’t have the energy to even get up and walk to the bus stop, so I called my cousin to pick me up, and he took me home. He said I looked really bad, and maybe I should go to the ER. However, in all of my non-existent wisdom, I insisted I just needed to take my puffers, and it would be fine. I’d been hospitalized for asthma once when I was a kid, and this wasn’t nearly so bad. It was bad, but not that bad. 

I changed my mind when I threw up all over my sheets as I headed to bed. I thought that was strange, because, to my knowledge, vomiting was not a typical symptom of asthma. I wasn’t thinking very clearly either way, as DKA tends to have that effect. I just put my sheets in the laundry, and drank a lot of juice, milk, and water, because I was so thirsty, and if I was sick, I needed to keep hydrated. Hindsight being 20/20 the milk, and especially the juice was a bad idea. I spent most of the night trying to focus, because I felt so tired. I remember thinking I could pass out from exhaustion. I still didn’t call an ambulance though; I thought it would get better, but it didn’t. Eventually, in the wee hours of the morning, with my laundry all done, and pulling an all-nighter, (I am so glad I didn’t go to sleep, because I doubt I would have woken up, and no one would have missed me for days with my parents out of the country, and my friends overseas; they would have just found my corpse probably a week later…), I called my grandparents, and asked them if they would mind driving me to the ER.

They drove me there, and all I remember is pain. My memory comes in flashes. I remember just focusing on the goal, on the next step of the mission. Walk to the elevator. Walk to the van. There’s a lot I don’t remember if it wasn’t to do with anything outside of my very deliberate and determined focus. I don’t remember, for instance, but I’ve been told my grandfather actually wiped saliva off my mouth, because it was hanging there in strands. I guess it was from the rapid breathing. Likewise, I didn’t notice, but my grandmother told me that when I walked my knees visibly shook trying to support my weight. Both of them told me I was pale as a sheet. All I remember though is pain, and forcing myself to stay awake, and push through it all. I could feel every individual muscle in my rib cage strain with each rapid, shallow breath, and I felt like a knife had been stabbed into my sternum. When we were in the elevator, I curled up into the fetal position, and when our floor came, I would force myself to stand right back up. My vision was blurring so much the memories now come in flashings of light and incoherent images.

When we got to the ER, I looked so bad they brought me up to the front of triage immediately, and I honestly didn’t have to wait at all. I still thought it might be asthma, so they put me on Ventolin, but I knew immediately that it wasn’t working. I remember trying to explain that it wasn’t working, that clearly this wasn’t an asthma attack, it was something else. I recall the process of communication felt so difficult, like talking to someone on the phone, but there’s a bad connection. You just can’t quite get the message across. You’re mixing things up, getting things wrong, and repeating yourself a lot. You wonder why they just can’t get it. Why don’t they understand you? There was significant frustration of simply trying to articulate what I meant when my thoughts were hard to string together, let alone my words. I think my speech was slurred. Eventually, I got the nurse to believe me that I wasn’t panicking, and they went to get the doctor who was at a complete loss. Maybe, it’s anxiety? No, I’m not an anxious person. Maybe you’re pregnant? Impossible, I’m a virgin. Maybe you’re…? So on, so forth. They gave me EKGs. They took X-Rays of my chest. All results came back, and lead to nowhere. Finally, another nurse noticed that I kept asking for more water, and she went up to doctor and said, “Maybe, she’s diabetic?” Then, everything clicked.

The doctor explained to me that the chest pain was coming from my heart struggling to pump my blood, because it was so thick with sugar. I remember almost seeing a light-bulb go off above her head, and almost hearing something click into place in mine. You see, my paternal grandmother, who passed from complications seven years before I was born, was Type I. Ironically enough, I was named after her, and I remember by father telling me a story that she had told him once: She’d said when she was about sixteen, she and her friends had gone out, and they’d all gotten milkshakes. She’d been so frustrated that she couldn’t eat and drink what she wanted, she drank the milkshake with them against her better judgement. She went into a coma, but she remembered waking up once, and feeling her heart strain to pump the viscous blood, and that was when she vowed to take better care of herself. I remember having that flashback, and going Oh! That’s me now!

After that, I was placed on a gurney, and rushed to ICU. I remember letting myself pass out, since I figured now that they knew what to do with me, I was entitled. The last thing I remember before the black was one nurse taking my blood sugar, and another trying to find an artery to get my ABG. The last thing I saw was the shocked look on their faces when they saw what the results were…

I was unconscious for about twenty hours during which they took my blood every four hours, but I remember waking up briefly in the wee hours of the next day, and being so hungry. I asked for something to eat, but the nurses looked shocked I was even up. They looked at one another skeptically before saying that I could eat if I could hold down some juice. I tried, but I threw it up immediately. I remember saying, “I’m willing to try again,” but they told me no. The gravity of the moment settled on me, when one of the nurses said, “Your blood is poison, honey, you can’t keep anything down right now.” I nodded blearily, and passed out again.

I woke up the next morning strung up on 6-8 IVs. This is not an exaggeration. I had four needles in me: Two at my wrists, and two in the crooks of my elbow, and they had double outlets. Hence, 6-8 IVs. My forearms were just massive bruises. I was attached to the IVs for two days, with some gradually getting removed as I got better, until they were all gone: some were insulin, some were electrolytes, some were saline solution. The magnesium was particularly bad. It burned as it went in, and all the nurses could give me for it was an ice pack. (Also, thank you to all the nurses out there. The ones who were assigned to me were all just so kind, and I can’t thank you enough for all you do to take care of us. It’s really very humbling, and I quite appreciated it.)

I slept for most of the first two days I was in ICU, and the first day is mostly just blur. I do recall needing to use the bedpan, and how it registered to me that I wasn’t remotely embarrassed about someone else being there to help me use the bathroom. I just felt so helpless, and exhausted I didn’t even care I needed help with basic bodily functions. I realized then I must really be bad off if I just didn’t care. I was so tired, sooooo tired…

The nurse came to explain that I was diabetic, and I just took it all in. She didn’t have to explain much, because I already knew a lot about it a) because I took an advanced biology course, and b) because it was in the family. I remember feeling like there was a certain inevitability to it. My grandmother had it. Now I have it. I was named after her. It just seemed so poetic. All the nurses said they were impressed that I was taking it so well. I didn’t know what to make of that statement. In many ways, it wasn’t real. I was diabetic now, and that was it. Shrug your shoulders. How was I supposed to take it? I had my diagnosis, and that was it. I didn’t understand why they thought I was doing so well. Was there a way that I was expected to take it…? Was I supposed to pitch a fit? Freak out? Have a tantrum? I said thank you, when they told me I was taking it well, but I honestly didn’t understand where they were coming from. I felt lost, but I did what I was told, and was as good a patient as I could be.

It started to become more real when I was discharged. I went home and I was still quite insulin resistant, and weak, but they needed the bed at the hospital, and I was able enough to manage, so I went. They gave me needle tips, insulin pens, test strips, and lancets, a massive sharps container, and told me to expect the nurse to call. Looking at the size of the sharps container was when my head knowledge began to become my heart knowledge. It was huge, and I realized that was because this was the rest of my life. That container was going to be filled with needles, and loads more would be filled besides. It started to feel more real, and it didn’t stop. It continued as I called the nurse with my numbers when she asked me to, when I started planning meals, when I started taking care of my blood sugar all by myself, when I started rearranging the rhythms of my life, but it was still so strange, and so much to remember. I staved a lot of how I felt off, and looking back, I think a lot of it was just me dissociating, because I needed to take care of myself, and be strong. Everything else could wait.

I finally broke down three days or so after I got out of the hospital. My mom, who had been out of the country, came back as soon as she heard the news, and as we were driving home from the airport, I finally felt safe enough to cry. Now, it was real. I cried, and I cried, because this was the rest of my life. I cried because I felt trapped. I cried because a whole future I had planned out where I took being healthy for granted just died. I cried because I was scared. I told my mom, “I feel like I’ve got a bomb strapped to me and any day it might go off.” I cried because I’d almost died. I cried because I knew that if I ever stopped taking care of myself, I was dead. I cried because eventually no matter how well I took care of myself, there would be complications. I cried because my grandfather told me I was released on the anniversary of my grandmother’s death. It was just too much. I cried. I just cried.