Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)


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Here are the stories that made us smile this week:

I said no. She asked if I was suicidal. I talked about how hard things had been recently—with the job and the move. I was probably rambling to keep the call going when a pair of police officers and two paramedics arrived at my door.

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I put down the phone. I walked out into the hallway of the building. I was fine, I told them. The person on the line overreacted. They said I could go voluntarily or they would put a hour hold on me. There was some back and forth, but they were resolute.

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I thought I could convince a clinician to let me go before 72 hours. The two paramedics had arrived with a rolling stretcher and asked me to sit in it. I was fine to walk, but clearly regulations had taken over the situation. They wheeled me down the hallway, into the elevator and into the back of the ambulance parked in front.

It was a five-minute ride to Bridgeport Hospital. Nobody spoke. I was wheeled through a series of doors. Once we were in the ER, the first thing that happened was a nurse asked for my insurance card. The ambulance ride itself probably cost hundreds of dollars. Someone had to start paying.


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After I fished my insurance card out of my wallet and handed it over, the paramedics told me I could stand. A nurse gave me a plastic bracelet with my name on it, marking a clear transition into a patient. The goal was to not seem emotionally distressed, even though everything that was happening was emotionally distressing. Carl led me to that room, the one next to the intake desk.

Carl closed the door behind him and I stripped down to my boxers and put on the gown. Carl left with my clothes. He did not close the door. A middle-aged nurse came by and introduced herself. I don't remember her name, but it was probably something like Martha or Betty.

Next, the hospital social worker came by and told me to follow him to his office. I told him. I repeated what I had told the police. He told me they needed to do some additional paperwork before I was discharged. He led me back to the designated psych patient room. In the ER were a few scrub-wearing staffers behind desks and computer stations.

Some average Bridgeporters were sitting in plastic chairs, waiting on friends and family.

They were in their jackets because of the influx of February air from the periodic whooshing of doors. I felt like everyone knew. Why else would someone who was able to walk unassisted through this room be in a hospital gown and a plastic bracelet? Time passed. I got in the bed and put the covers over my head. I thought about why I wanted to go home, to not be hospitalized.

I had been through months of paralyzing anxiety.

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Maybe I needed an intensive timeout. When I was 17, I broke a lightbulb in my bedroom and lodged the broken glass into my wrists.

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It was probably a cry for help. My mom drove me to the ER, which transferred me to a psych ward in Buttfuck, Pennsylvania. The person working the nightshift forgot to mark down my arrival for the morning crew, so I slumped in a chair for 12 hours with a bandage on my wrist.

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No one realized I was there until my parents came back for visiting hours. My mom pulled me out, signing a paper stating that it was against medical advice as if we received any. In the days after, she kept calling until someone was fired. And while this was all voluntary on paper, I was coerced here. That loss of control felt intensely threatening. I laid under the covers, listening in for the noise of bureaucratic mechanisms.

They were looking for some psychiatrist who had to sign off on psych releases. Another hour passed. When the social worker told me I was going to a psychiatric hospital two towns away, I panicked. She instantly craned her head to look out the room and walked out slowly. The staffer behind the intake desk looked over at me.

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I gave him the finger. Carl came back with my clothes. I wanted to like him. He was the only person whose demeanor seemed determined by something other than procedure and I'd started to despise procedure. Two new paramedics came. We went through the routine again. I got into the stretcher, was wheeled through the ER and loaded into an ambulance. One of them, a something little shit with nerd glasses, sat in the back with me. I hated him. He had just met me.

kinun-mobile.com/wp-content/2020-07-15/pez-location-where.php We were destined to spend only 15 minutes together and he was so cavalier asking about one of the most humiliating experiences I had ever been through. It was an empty threat, a thought struck up on the spot. I wanted to say something to acknowledge how fucked this was. I just remember being loaded out of the ambulance and through some hallways. It was about 2 AM.

There were a few staffers at a front desk. The place was dead silent. At about AM, I did my intake interview with an Australian-accented social worker with shoulder-length hair.

Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary) Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)
Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary) Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)
Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary) Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)
Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary) Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)
Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary) Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)
Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary) Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)
Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary) Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)
Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary) Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)
Psyched For Bed With Nothing To Read (bedtime tales for the weary)

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