The Bloody Doors Off

A confession up-front: I’ve never seen that movie all the way through. Nor have I sat through the entirety of Shawshank Redemption. I chose the title mostly because, well, when they finally took me to the sixth floor in H Wing that Wednesday morning, it felt like I was walking a mile towards my doom.

They woke me up around 8am that morning. Still on the ground floor secured ward, the curtain half-drawn. The nurse called out my name with a call and answer. Much Music was on the television nearby. (This became a recurring thing; I’m not sure how videos of a naked Miley Cyrus riding a giant wrecking ball was supposed to make me better.) They brought breakfast and pills.

And then my brother Kevin showed up. I’d remembered leaving him a message Tuesday night, before Scott arrived at my place and we made our way to Toronto East General.

The visit was extremely emotional for both of us. We cried; we hugged. We talked about how we weren’t raised to share our emotions like this, how we felt like we just had to shoulder the pain and turbulence and put on a brave face. That it took this moment for us to break through that wall.

Live with Kelly and Michael was now on in the background. We talked for a bit longer before Kevin had to head out. I remember seeing him again later that day, but I can’t remember if it was on the ground floor or the 6th.

I overheard the nurses talking about my admittance to upstairs; they were just waiting for a bed to open up. I had no idea how many rooms were there, whether I’d have my own room (or how bad off you had to be in order to sleep solo), no idea of what was coming next.

All I knew was, I was wearing two hospital gowns, underwear and socks, and the green foam piggy slippers. At least no angry birds had been tossed at me yet. Man, I wanted to be funny. It’s my default when things are bad. I crack jokes, make light of the bullshit. And I had nothing. Couldn’t even make fun of myself (another default).

In retrospect I realize I could’ve sat in one of the chairs and watched the television to pass the time. But I was so damned tired, so I ended up curling up and trying to sleep. That’s also something you don’t realize until it hits: the pure exhaustion.

The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Kevin came back while I was still downstairs. Yeah, that makes sense.

And sometime shortly after noon, I heard the news. A bed had opened up, and I was to be escorted to H Wing on Six. Different security guard with all of my clothes and possessions tagged and bagged (I don’t know why I thought the same guy would be there) and a good 5 minute walk and elevator ride later, and I stood at the secured doors of the Psychiatric Unit.

Unprepared for what came next.

Today? Not so bad.

Kinda snuck up on me. Wasn’t perfect, and I’m not asking for perfection. Woke up with the alarm for the first time (no snooze, no reset). Despite my back being jacked up, I managed to get out of bed, had enough time for a cup o’ joe and bagel before heading off to see the psychiatrist and get paperwork filled out for a request to get a medical extension for EI. Got there way too early. I know how much time it takes to get from home to his office and yet still end up ahead of the curve. Weird.

Anyway, turns out 10 minutes into the session he accidentally double-booked and I’m the double-bookee. Still, got the paperwork filled out and went down to Service Canada. That’s where I find out I fucked up my last EI filing. I knew I only had one week left and it was the week before my hospitalization. So when I clicked on the ‘no hours to claim’ portion, I thought I was just filling it out for that week. The person behind the desk asked ‘well if you were in hospital, why didn’t you indicate you couldn’t work?‘… headdesk. I explained it to her like I did here. Not exactly thinking, was I? I was less than 24 hours out of hospital when I sent in the form. I dunno what I could’ve done differently.

So now I get to wait 3-4 weeks for their decision. Which, with my luck, will be denied and I’ll have to appeal. (So many appeals…) If it goes my way, then I have to wait another 2 weeks. Which means I’m looking at January. Tell me that makes sense.

And yet. No spiral. Disappointed? Sure. A little ticked? Yup. But no despair. Even after I got home and am yet enduring the idiots clopping around like centaurs in heat above my head, I’m not at my worst.

So there’s that. Friday hasn’t been hell. Let’s hope it stays that way.

Panic attacks suck. They suck worse when your triggers are magnified, and over the simplest things. Like grocery shopping.

Yeah, like groceries should set off alarm bells, right? Only tonight it did. The day started off well enough; no bouncy walls, no bouncy brain. It was grey outside (welcome to fall, welcome to rain and dark clouds), but I was up and made coffee. Working on changing my routine for sleep; asleep around midnight, up by 9:00 (okay, 9:30, still working on not hitting the snooze… maybe I need to set it for 8:30?). The usual breakfast: bagel, peanut butter and jam. Checked email, Facebook, quickly jumped onto local news over the latest Rob Ford developments. Yeah, that was fun.

Routine is good right now. It might sound boring, and sometimes it is, but it helps. I get why they encouraged that on the sixth floor. So my mornings are fairly routine, or starting that way.

And earlier this afternoon my brother Wayne came to visit, and we went for a bite to eat and coffee. It was great. I’m feeling much closer to my siblings since the crisis; I wish it didn’t take this to encourage our relationships. I own my fair share of that. That’s something I’m going to continue to fix. I can talk to my brothers about what happened. How, when things get dark, you think you’re doing people a favor by not ‘bothering them’ with your problems. And then learning that they want to be there for you. It’s something I need to drill into my head.

So, he later drops me off at home and I putter off a bit. Then it occurs to me.

‘End of the month, gotta log in the last of my expenses for the bankruptcy trustee. Maybe I should get some groceries and add them to the list. I need a few things, including margarine. No harm in hitting the No Frills.’

No harm. No harm…

Yet I’m second-guessing every item in my cart (and it feels like a shit-ton, yet when I get to the check-out counter there’s only 15 items). And then I hit the aisle with teas. I’m trying to drink less coffee. I want tea, something less caffeinated. And we’re talking No Thrills here, so there’s not a huge selection. And I’m debating the number of tea bags v. cost v. brand and… it just hits me.

‘What the fuck am I doing? Can I even afford this? What If I spend x only to need y for prescription pills or…’

Panic attack. I just freeze in the aisle. Thank god no one was passing by. If they even as much as said ‘excuse me’ I might’ve lost it.

But I didn’t. And I’m writing about it, which takes away some of the sting.

Now I just have to parse what brought on the manic episode last night…

I’ve gone through a perspective shift the past two days.

When I was brought into the secured ward, I had no control over what happened to my life outside of the hospital. What if I was there past the end of the month? How would my rent be paid? Other bills? Who was going to take care of my pets? (While I asked my former roommate to take care of that issue, I knew it wasn’t a wise idea. Thankfully I had a friend on hand.) But it truly worried me. And I think that was one of the reasons why I was able to put on a brave face when I finally met with the hospital psychiatrist and psychologist.

Because there were things I had to take care of.

Before I entered emergency, I wrote a draft email to my two recurring clients. Informed them of a health issue that may take me away from working for the short-term. Gave my password to my friend, with instructions to send it should I be admitted. I fed my cats one last time. I made sure any outstanding jobs were completed.

Yesterday, it occurred to me that yes, I’m still struggling. Scared that I’m not handling things as well as I need to be. So I’ve gotten my ducks in a row.

Rent is being forwarded to the landlord. Invoices are drafted and mailed to my clients, which will be processed in the middle of November. Informed the landlord about damage to the floor in the former roommate’s room. (Very disappointed he never told me about this. Says a lot about character.) I’m going through the fridge, looking for possibly spoiled/about to spoil food. The gas is now under my name, as well as the new roommate’s. Just in case. Bills are paid and will carry through the month of November.

Not my first choice, but this time I’ll be prepared. If it comes to it, this will be one less stressor while I get better.

I don’t know how many times I cried the first night at Toronto East General. At the registration desk, conversations with nurses and doctors, my friend Scott. I had moments of lucidity, but they were brief.

Scott told me about a phrase they used to write on a patient’s chart: CTD. It stands for Circling The Drain. That was me that night. I admitted I had a plan. Pills. (I don’t like blood or pain. Plus I’m vain enough not to put my family through the mess of identification.) I’m so fucking thankful that my initial meltdown happened at my psychiatrist’s office. He asked the most important question: did I think I needed to go to hospital? That made for a much better plan than the alternative. Admit I need help, and ask for it.

I cried more that night. When I was walked to the secure ward and deposited in Bay 32. Hearing the nurse say I was being admitted, but I wouldn’t be going upstairs until sometime the next day, when a bed was ready. After Scott left for the night.

When it really hit me just how real this was, and how far I’d fallen. Without an idea of how to get back up again.

The upstairs neighbors are dicks. There’s no polite way of saying it. The landlords inherited them when they bought the house. I’ve been told that their lease isn’t being removed and will be about by the end of November. Dear fucking christ, I hop so.

The previous landlord allowed them a washer/dryer instead of an oven. Given the number of people who live there on a given week (it’s laughably become a bit of a flop house; you never see the same 3-5 people), the machine goes constantly. It sucks up the water pressure, and is a bit noisy. But I can live with that.

What I can’t live with is the near constant back and forth, banging heels on the floors. It’s like they’ve never heard of simply walking. That they have to announce their presence with every footfall.  And the random banging, of things being dropped onto the ground. Usually though, it stops around 11pm, only to start up again at 4am when one of them wakes up to get ready to work at McDonald’s. Right on top of my head.

Since I’ve been out of hospital, I’ve become more sensitive to the noise. And last night was too much for me. It kept going on, right past 1am. I’m trying to modify my sleep schedule, go to bed by midnight and wake up by 9am. And they just. Kept. Banging.

I lost my shit. I bellowed with such force from my bed. I was seconds from getting dressed and pounding on their door. They heard me. They apologized. And two minutes later, it started up again.

I dunno if I can make it to the end of the month. Not like this.

I’m starting to hate those words right now. And it’s not because people have said that to me. They haven’t. Anyone who’s engaged me since Tuesday have been incredible. My oldest brother Kevin dropped pretty much everything this afternoon when I’d returned his call and was struggling. (I have no doubt my other brother Wayne would do the same if he were in Canada today.) And I’ve got friends who’ve said that I could call anytime, day or night, and they’d be right by my side in a heartbeat.

I hate these words, not because others have said them to me, but because I’ve too often said them to myself. Including today.

How stupid is that? Be Strong, Koster. You’re being ’emotional’. No one wants to hear it.

That kind of thinking is, I know in this moment, is bullshit. It’s the nagging doubt of months of decisions I think of as wrong, of problems that have built up, that feel like they’re gonna swallow me.

If you ever hear of someone talking about an abyss, yeah. It’s because they’re feeling weak, so fucking down on themselves that they can’t see a way to fix the problem.

And the kicker is, it’s not like I’ve always felt that way. I’ve been ‘strong’ without ever having to say it to myself. It was just a part of who I am. (I almost said was, and that would be incorrect. It’s still there; I just need to remember it’s a part of me.)

I’m an introvert. (Go ahead, laugh.) Yes, I performed improv for over a decade. I emceed a fucking Whedonverse convention in the U.S. for three years running. I could get up in front of a crowd, keep ’em entertained, make ’em laugh. Because it wasn’t about me. Sure, I loved the sound of laughter. I got satisfaction over knowing that other people were happy. It was a rush. I never thought it made me strong, but I definitely found strength in it.

I also found strength in work. I’m good at what I do. But now the pool is deeper, and everyone wants to see a piece of paper that says you spent x amount of time learning it in an accredited school. Some faceless person in Human Resources isn’t checking out the years of practical experience you’ve had in the industry, just that you owe thousands in student loans and will take the job cheaper than the guy beside you. (Okay, I know that isn’t true– entirely– but sometimes it feels that way.)

So now I need to find new ways. Leading up to last Tuesday, I called them distractions. Ways to keep me pre-occupied. But that’s ignoring the issue. And that doesn’t work.