One flew O're the cuckoo's Nest Part !

Well my dear readers. I have much to share. I hardly know where to start. My life turned into the deserted gas station just off the side of the road and getting out of the car placed me squarely into the Twilight Zone.  If you read my last blog you have the foundation for this story. It begin when I spent four days talking with my husband, attempting to either work through our devastation or agree to divorce. I also tried to elicit some empathy of his part regarding my current emotional state of being. Every single turn, it was more of the same. I wanted more of him home, he wanted never to be home. His basic attitude was that he could do whatever he wanted because he's a grown up. I didn't have much to say about it and even I did he wasn't listening so leave him the fuck alone. I knew last weekend that he would be meeting with his "skank" (his word not mine) and wouldn't be home until the following day. As the clock silently ticked away the hours my anxiety grew and grew and where I felt strong earlier in the day, my anxiety took over and would not let up. My chest always felt warm and tight, I wanted to cry ALL the time, I had not slept in 36 hours, hadn't eaten in 48. Each hour that he should have walked through the door but did not, the steel grip of anxiety and jealousy gripped me even tighter. All I could think of was him and her smiling and laughing and being together. Every passing hour brought new thoughts of their sexual encounters and what my husband was sounding like during. I agree with you now that was pretty silly but at the time it was the thoughts that had consumed me. Little by little my self confidence, self esteem, my sanity all slipped away. Making it worse was that that morning he came into my bedroom hugged and kissed me said he never meant to hurt me AND would not be coming home that night. The swirling mass of total "fuck you" just kept swirling until I was completely lost somewhere inside the funnel of manic depression.

I journal-ed but still could not find a foot hole to climb out. In my mind all I could see what the last 20 years of my devotion, the last 20 years of working solo on fixing my problems and his, 20 years of extremely hard work just got tossed into the smoldering fire. I found a piece of glass and was surprised how oddly shaped it was, looked like the shape of Texas. Since the pills were not working, maybe the glass would. I even tried the cut through my wrist and discovered that more pressure was necessary so I found random spots of my arm and hand to discover just what amount of pressure I would need. I found the sting of success as a relief of some pain. Somehow the sting of the glass cutting through my skin made my inner pain feel tolerable.  Then as the night wore on and I had nothing to do but journal and listen to my empty house and think about why it was empty, I decided to carve the words  I NEED 2 DIE on the inside of my left arm. I had come to crossroad in my life and I saw nothing good at either direction. Pain to be alive, pain to die, pain to look at my husband, pain to leave my children, pain pain pain. The need to die was great because in my head I had lost EVERYTHING and 20 years had just become a wasted effort on my part. The pain and the problem causing the pain was too big for me and I was no longer strong enough to hold my head up high.
All the insecurities I have ever had as a child and an adult, every lie I knew I had been told, every betrayal I ever felt came crashing around me ears as I sat in my bed crying and wishing my husband would come home.     I carved deeper and deeper so that the blood would form and nice crust and then a scare. If I made it through the night I wanted the reminder of what I felt and I wanted my husband to never forget.

I don't know if any of you have ever felt that low, that tapped. The best way I can describe it is

being at the bottom of a very deep well and no matter how hard I strained, I could not see daylight. When my husband came home several hours later than he was supposed to I showed him what I had done and he rushed me off to the hospital.  I was checked in, asked questions and everything I ha on was stripped away from me. No pants, shoes,underwear, or shirt. Just a hospital gown. I spent the night in something called ED Annex when I soon learned that it was the place for the drunks to sober up and be released or sent to "OCC" They gave 2 different types of pills that were supposed to knock my ass out but I ended up sit in the middle of my bed just thinking and realizing the severity of my current state of being.  As dawn broke I was transferred to a facility called O'Riely Care Center ( OCC )  where I had pictures of my arms, my tattoos, moles etc taken. We did some basic intake questionnaire and I was shown to my room.  Stark, cold, and no one waiting for me there. I had my own bathroom and a walk in shower with a shower chair. I was taken on a tour of the facility and introduced to the 13 other sad sacks there. I was provided a sandwich for breakfast lunch and dinner until I was later given a menu. I choose the following days' meals and then was given the rules of existence: no smoking, no visits until 430pm and until 545pm . Attend every group, check out books, go to yoga classes. Calls outside to family and friends were limited to 10 minutes. I was finally given my street clothes because they didn't have big enough uniforms to fit me. These uniforms consisted of dark blue scrub pants, a light blue scrub top and if you were cold you got the dark blue scrub jacket. Every one was issued a pair of yellow socks with little smiley faces on then. In my room was a supply of soap, tooth brush, toothpaste  a comb, mouthwash, and shampoo.

The long and the short of this story is that through adjusted medications and an added medication for anxiety, I found out that I was suffering from PTSD which I thought was reserved for war veterans. It and in was explained to me that since I have had stress in abundance from age 5+ on, and in an abundance of varying stages my body's trigger was stuck on stress.....it never had a chance to reset because I went from stress to stress thinking I was safe again but wasn't. I am a molest survivor, I had the worst possible childhood one could imagine, I was beaten within an inch of my life sometimes for the whim of it and sometimes because I had actually been bad, my parents fought and my father was violent one minute and tender the next, my new brother got a fever that affected his brain and speech so I was frequently left to my own devices, my second brother was the pride and joy of my mother and now I was ignored again. When my parents divorced I was instantly engaged in the raising and caring for my brothers who were teenagers at the time and the house work and the food prep. I fell into the world of make believe (drama) as a way of escaping my pain and feelings of guilt. My mother was working but she was also dating and there long nights where she wasn't home until very late, if at all. I got kicked out of her house and had to live with my dad and his new wife. Shortly thereafter my 1st brother was kicked out and he also lived wit my dad and step mother.  These parental units are devout Baptists and just like before we were made to go to church 3 times on Sunday ( including Sunday school) and once of Wednesday. My dad later took a job position in Santa Barbara and announced that my belongings had been delivered to my new location. My brother would be going to California with them but not me. The lady I lived with had piles and piles or papers all over her house. She claimed they belonged to her son who had recently died but looking back on it I would have to say that she was a hoarder. Roaches would scatter in the kitchen when the lights came on. Finally my best friend said she had her own apartment and we could live together. I later had my mother inform me that she had found a job for me as a housekeeper and they were expecting me in a hour.