This past Friday I had a panic attack. The few days prior to Friday had been hard – I was emotional as well as adjusting to a new environment. I went to bed on Thursday night, calm, and feeling positive – I can do this, I said to myself. I am going to wake up in the morning, and be happy and walk the dog and go to yoga and everything will be okay.
Friday morning could not have been further from my action plan.
I woke up feeling sad and empty. I wanted to stay in bed, but I willed myself out and washed my face. I made it as far as the kitchen before the tears started. Feed the dog, I told myself. Feed Lucy, and just take the day one step at a time.
I put Lucy’s dish on the floor and collapsed. I was hyperventilating, and screaming into the kitchen tiles. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why couldn’t you just stick to your plan for the day. Lucy isn’t going to get a walk. Stop crying, this is ridiculous.
My thoughts initially were just a little self deprecating, but very quickly the darkness took over. You’re never going to be happy. Why do you want to live if the rest of your life is going to be life this? Hurt yourself. Write a note, and end it all.
I called my father. Dad, come home and take me to the hospital. I want to hurt myself.
I was admitted to the psych ward at Cambridge Memorial Hospital. I am on a locked unit with eight to ten other people, who just like me, are having a hard time. We have a few breaks a day to see the outside world, but mostly our days are filled with group therapy, and positive activities. Sometimes Dad and Karen bring the dogs over in the evening, and I’m allowed to go for a walk with them.
One day at a time.