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This happened to us once before. Soon after, I went into crisis. I was unable to deal with the changes in my life and my lack of an anchor. Unable to deal with "phone hours." So here we are now and I have the calmest damn mask on, but underneath that I am barely hanging on.
I have six Ativan and thirteen and a half Valium left. I haven't missed a dose of Risperdal yet, no matter how shitty the anxiety gets and even though my pill bottles get emptier and emptier, I am confident that I'll be able to pull through.
They don't like prescribing benzos because they're habit forming, because people abuse them and go on benzo binges, and here I am, rationing mine out so carefully because god only knows when I'll get more. Have to save them for times of panic.
And there he is in the hospital, because he's insured and can afford to be hospitalized. I nearly hate him for it. Little bastard, I know how to fix him, but I can't. And neither can they, apparently. Sometimes I just don't understand this guy. Why he's presenting with my symptoms, why they are keeping him so long, why, with the diagnosis they gave him, they are prescribing what they're prescribing, why they're giving him meds like candy and he's having a fucking picnic when he has five different chemicals in his bloodstream and what he really needs is just one or two.
Why he doesn't realize how much it hurts me that he's totally flippant about being in the hospital. Why I have to be strong for both of us when I'd normally be at my weakest. Why I have to do this with no support.
What I do understand: why I'm angry. We present with the same symptoms, he is immediately hospitalized. I have to beg and plead for help and then they just stick me in a crisis center for a few days. I go in on a Friday, don't talk to a doctor until Monday, get released on Tuesday, still hallucinating and suicidal and desperate. He sounds chill and they're keeping him there so he can experiment with new and exciting antipsychotics and I force a laugh so he'll think everything's okay, because we can't have this conversation during PHONE HOURS and It Just Would Not Do To Stress Him Out More.
There's a part of me that thinks he's faking and that he just doesn't understand how fucking IMPORTANT his fucking mental health is to us. Because two broken people cannot make a whole person, because if he loses his mind, the fight becomes twice as hard, because he has to STAY IN THE FUCKING ARMY, FOR GOD'S SAKE, OR WE CANNOT BE TOGETHER.
This stupid breakdown is causing me to rethink our relationship again, again, this is what, the fifth or sixth time in the past couple of months? Can we make it through the distance and the shit, or do I just have a highly romanticized idea of what we are and am ignoring the truth of it all?
I don't like going to hospitals, even doctors offices... the idea of seeing nurses and sick people and doctors is absolutely sickening to me. People go to this place with fake problems and real ones, with problems that cannot be cured and things that are so simple as "here's a pill, take it..." I don't know...whenever I'm sick, I drink tea and then life is good.
i found out today that my mom had to go back to the hospital. I cried. There's only one other person that knows. I'm trying to decide if I want to tell someone else or do i just want to let everyone keep thinking I'm ok. I think I'm going to go with the second choice. As long as I keep my mind occupied I can keep it up. I don't want to deal with everyone's pity. I don't want to have to deal with everyone asking "oh is she ok?". No I'm not fucking ok. What the hell do you think? My mother is the single most important person in my life, I couldn't deal if something happened to her. Great now i'm crying again. Fucking Great.