Fight to Find a Voice

I had to fight to get on G2P this time despite the severity of my symptoms. My Stanford psychiatrist was on board, and told me to go--he knew, like any knowledgable person knew, that auditory hallucinations (especially commanding hallcinations in which the sufferer is being told to kill him/herself) mixed with depression and suicidal ideation warrant hospitalization.

My therapist was just dazed and bewildered. When I broke the news to her that I needed to go, she sent this in a text-message: "[Jae], I feel a little confused that you feel so distraught that you need to be hospitalized. That was not my impression the last couple of times I've talked to you..." I must admit I wasn't being entirely honest with her, and I acknowledged that fact to her in the conversation. I didn't tell her specifically about James, about his influence or about how frequently he bugged me, and despite the fact that she's been my therapist for over a year, she has no idea that Morpheus even exists.

Earlier before my admission, I had shown up to the ER at Stanford (under the direction of my Stanford psychiatrist who told me that there was a discharge on H2, and a bed potentially available), and after spilling my guts about all the magical things going on with me--I was told there was no room at the Inn, on either of the units.

 I stared into the face of a girl who was probably barely thirty, who looked like she just finished clearing her skin of acne. "Well, I feel it's my duty to put you in a bed at one of our sister hospitals," she tells me.

  "Okay, that's the last thing I want to happen," I remark frankly. I realize that I just did it to myself--they could put me under a 5150. I panic inside. "How about my parents come and get me and you release me in their care?"

The triage team calls my psychiatrist late at night, and he convinces them that I can be sent home.

I am told to contact the Inspire clinic social worker, who shall remain nameless. I go home, three hours of a drive, exhausted and scared.

Days later when the social worker calls, and ask what my plan is (social workers beat the dead horse by constantly asking, "what are your coping skills?" I always want to lie, and say, "Cigarettes and booze.").

Eventually, I'm tired of avoiding the question, and I tell him I'm planning on heading back to Stanford as soon as a bed is available. He gives me the proverbial "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" by telling me that going to my therapy session and a telehealth session with Stanford psychiatrist should be enough to "straighten me out." I hang up on him. Does he secretly work for Medicare? Is he worried about my medical bill debt?? Otherwise, what the fuck? If someone needs to go to the hospital, someone needs to go to the hospital.