Night One

March 23, 2016

3:30am

Surrey Memorial Hospital

Emergency Room

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services

Despite only getting forty-five minutes of sleep the previous night, I sit here this morning wide awake on only four hours of sleep, forced upon me by a double dose of Ativan and Trazodone last night. As I laid here, awaiting for the meds to put me to sleep, a woman began shouting at the top of her lungs. Her screams of terror were having an effect on me unlike anything I had ever felt before. I have heard screams of a person in horrific pain, form a broken leg or torn knee ligament. I have heard the screams of a person dealing with the loss of a person close to them, unable to control the overwhelming emotions of fear and loss. This was beyond terror, beyond pain and beyond any level of rationality.

Shouting at the top of her lungs, she was expressing her unbridled horror and panic of a mother who believed they're young child was going to be harmed at the hands of another, and there was nothing she could do to protect them. I use the word believed on purpose, for in this place, a person's perception of reality is just as likely to be false as it is true and the health care staff must take every claim seriously but cautiously.

The woman's claims came fast, loud and furious.

"I know this is a prison!" Not an untrue statement but also an altered description of where we really are. While the appearance here surely evokes that thought, at a quick, closer look, it is obvious it is something different.

"I need to see my baby! You left him with a child beater! He's with an abuser! You have to save my son!"

Her cries were akin to that of a banshee, cutting through every other sound in the room like a katana blade, through the air and also, somehow through ourselves. Every logical bone in my body told me that I needed to remain to myself, in the corner bed I was lucky enough to receive. The other patients only had curtains or nothing at all, waiting in the hallways and chairs, to give them the separation I now needed. More isolated from the furor in the center of the room by the two walls half surrounding me, I still felt the need to curl into a ball as I lay on my bed, a hand over my ear, eyes closed and begging for the Ativan to finally kick in.

But, as upset as I was from the woman's pleading outburst, there was a deep down need to put aside all of my discomfort to try and help her. Watching a person in pain is something I had great difficulty in ignoring and soon I found myself opening my eyes to look through the curtain hanging near my feet. Her tears were not slowing, smeared makeup covering her entire face. Her breaths were so shallow and laboured, they reminded me of an overheated dog on a hot summer afternoon, panting to try and cool itself. I felt my brow furrow as my empathetic side began to take over, glad it wasn't me but also wanting, needing to absorb some of that uncontrolled emotion into myself. Like the character John Coffey from the movie The Green Mile, I wanted to take her pain and worry into myself, cleansing it from her to create her a new reality. I needed to help her, and knowing that this was completely illogical made no difference whatsoever.

This was the thought I had when my medication kicked in and I fell asleep, to the sound of her softly crying, responding finally to the injection they had given her to calm her down.

March 22, 2016 - Not an option

March 22, 2016

10 PM

Surrey Memorial Hospital

Emergency Room

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services

It is surreal here. Four security guards and two nurses just went through a door, into a room at the same time. It's an unassuming door, other than its size, at first glance. A sign on the door labels the room Anteroom 6-7. A closer look at the door reveals how unique it truly is. It's solid steel, with no door handle. It's long, thin window with mirrored safety glass shows just how "not normal" this normal door is. It is a prison door, not the ones you see in old movies but, instead, is the ones they use in supermax prisons, in solitary confinement. I have watched many documentaries about modern prisons and know there are only two reasons to have a door like that; to protect the person inside, from others or themselves, or to protect others from the person inside. I'm thinking it's a combination of both in this case.

I have just seen the psychiatrist on call and it did not go well. We talked about how low I have been feeling and how I ended up in this place. We also talked about where I would end up and the options are limited. I could wait for a room upstairs, which may take days or weeks. I could go to a place called CRESST for about two weeks, to give me a chance to sort some things out and start the journey of recovery a second time. He wanted me there but the spot that was open has already been filled.

There are two other options, be released into the general public once again, with no action being taken to ensure my safety. Although I am behind a large, locked door, it seems I am here on a voluntary basis and if I decide I want to leave, all I must do is fill out a couple forms and go. This thought disturbs me greatly. Being able to walk out the door any time I choose and facing things on my own is not something I would have chosen but it is infinitely better than my final option.

While waiting for a room upstairs, I would likely be transferred to Langley Memorial Hospital, the hospital closest to my home. While there, there would be a chance that I would fall under the care of Dr. Kogan, my former psychiatrist. This possibility terrified me, far more than I thought possible. Just the mention of it triggered an all-out panic attack, the likes of which I have not felt in many years. I'd had smaller, milder attacks but this was unexplainable to those that have never felt one personally. The closest I can get is to ask you to think of a scene from a horror movie, where a diminutive female is trapped in a corner by an overwhelming figure standing over her. Begging for her life, she loses all control, no longer to stop from shaking, from raising her voice, from being who she was moments before.

That was me, reduced to the eight year old boy who sat on the floor of the Museum of Anthropology, quivering and so afraid he couldn't explain what was wrong, not understanding what was happening to him.

"I can't go there. I can't do that. Do you see what you've done to me?"

"No, you did this to yourself," replied the psychiatrist.

I can't go to Langley. Ending up on the street is a better option than that but if I go out of here without a place to go, without having gotten some help, I will die; Either by my own hand or by simply not caring anymore. I have to get into CRESST because I simply don't see myself surviving without it.

March 22, 2016 - A locked door

March 22, 2016
7 PM

Surrey Memorial Hospital
Emergency Room
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services
I have worked hard in the past four years to break these habits, these protective behaviors that have kept me in my own private dungeon. For a while I could see the outside world, the possibilities, a future that even I may have been able to find but right now, tonight, in this place I must face the fact that I have failed. I am once again in a dungeon but this one is far more literal than the one I once built from fear. 
There is a door beside me I am not allowed to go through.

Twenty feet away from me is a man strapped to a bed. The police were just in here with him taking a deposition, ensuring his safety or any number of other reasons. All I know is that he is not well.

Neither is the man sitting beside me. He seems off, something within him is making him act a little different: not quite right. He is not at ease.

Neither am I.

Across the room is another young man, a cut or sore on his face. In his hand is a Tim Horton's coffee, a traditional double-double no doubt. He is reclined in his chair, half covered by a blanket. His demeanor is that of nearly any twenty year old man lounging on a Sunday afternoon watching his favorite football team play. He is at ease and as much as I can his level of comfort rather than this anxiety I am feeling, there is an underlying thought.

I don't want to be that comfortable here.

I am in the mental health and substance abuse zone of the Surrey Memorial Hospital.Dr Khan, my psychiatrist sent me here after three minutes in my session with him. I broke down immediately after starting to talk to him and he saw I needed more help than a fifteen minute session could provide. The first thing I realized when I asked for help during my first breakdown was that if you are no longer thinking rationally, then you need to let someone else do the thinking for a while. You have to make the decision to hand off all your choices, all your responsibilities and trust the people around you. 

But it doesn't mean I have to like what they decide. I despise asking for help. It makes me feel weak. It makes me feel pathetic, deserving of the ridicule I hear from myself everyday. It makes me feel inhuman, reduced to a specimen in a lab experiment or a virtual creature in one of those Tamagotchies that the kids used to play with.

I feel like I'm in a ten year old's palm, as they feed, train and clean up after me, to see how long they can keep me alive, deserving of no more happiness of respect than the cursor blinking before me as I write this.

I can think of a thousand places I'd rather be, finding comfort. I can also think of another thousand places I'd rather be that would make me very uncomfortable. Think of the worst, grossest most disgusting they made contestants do on the TV show Fear Factor and I'd rather do that. OK, maybe not having to drink the donkey semen, but just a maybe.

March 22, 2016 - A beer or two

March 22, 2016

1 PM

Central City Brew Pub

I am sitting in the local brew-pub admiring the eyes of the waitress. The seats at the bar are very good for this. I don't mean ogling the waitress, far too young and completely out of my league, but instead I am participating in one of my favorite pastimes; people watching. Behind me, jovially humming to himself sits a man; obviously a regular but not so well known that the staff yells his name when he comes through the door. Fifty years old and quite overweight, he has, probably even to him, a full head of hair which minimizes the effects of the crow's feet that surrender the secret of his age to those paying attention.

The beer before me is quite citrusy, quite a smack to the palate from a pale ale. It reminds me of the vapours that fill the air when you cut into a fresh grapefruit, essential oils exploding from the fruit and settling up on everything like a soft, spring dawn mist.

I'm not supposed to be drinking. I'm not an alcoholic but I am medicated and those prescribed drugs do not retain their effectiveness when they encounter alcohol in their travels around my blood stream. I am trying to numb myself today, and this one beer will not do the trick. In matter of fact, I doubt any amount of beer will accomplish my goal but I have to try something because existing with a functioning brain that malfunctions is something I am unable to bear today. Another beer is on its way.

The chubby man behind me has stepped up the level of his musical game making his love for the classic Star Wars theme quite apparent. He has also added chatting to his repertoire, although his audience is a mystery as I am the nearest to him, and nothing coming out of his mouth is being directed in my vicinity. While it may be true that he has a secret earpiece in his right ear, currently facing away from me, I am guessing not.

On the TV is a baseball game. This in itself is hardly a remarkable occurrence. However, the history being made today will not be determined in any part by the numbers on the scoreboard in left field or even by the teams playing when the day is done. But, the political ramifications are lost on no one that is taking the time to watch and I suspect even a great many who are not watching. In the stands sits American President Barack Obama. Again, not normally a surprise but it is the location of this game and the person sitting beside him that make it a remarkable occurrence and even the most important sporting event in the last half century.

Raul Castro, brother of the once dictator of the island of Cuba Fidel Castro sits in the stands beside the American President as the Tampa Devil Rays take on the Cuban National team, in Cuba. This is the first time in nearly 90 years that an American President has visited Cuba and today we finally have some tangible evidence that the animosity of the Cold War is beginning to subside. Over fifty years of distrust is being pushed aside in an attempt to move forward from one of the most petulant intra-country relationships in the history of the Western Hemisphere. Once on the brink of nuclear war, these two countries have decided to open up a dialogue and, rather than focus on the hostility, errors, and tragedies of the past, they are beginning anew. Like the second game of a double header, the past will only effect the present if they chose to allow it.

If only we could do that with our own pasts. Another beer has arrived.

The martinis being served to the chubby man have not lived up to his standards. Not that I can blame him. A gin martini with a lemon twist should not be served on the rocks with a lemon wedge dropped into it. Rather than get angry, the man drank what was served and upon ordering the next round, specified instructions were sent to the bartender through the waitress. After all, a bartender working the day shift in a brew pub would have very little training and had never been taught to prepare such a refined drink. With a little patience on one end and an openness to education on the other, martinis will have a proper twist in them when ordered and everyone is just a little better off.

It's a nice idea. It's the idea we try to tell our children is important. It's the idea we tell our teens when they are being bullied. It's the idea behind every union negotiated contract in the last 100 years. It's the idea that our politicians should be striving to achieve. In each of these situations the price of the alternatives is just too high.

Teaching our children to talk through their problems prevents them from using violence as they mature as and complex problems arise. Teaching this to our teens prepares them for their upcoming lives in the business world, where conflict resolution has become a more important job skill with every passing day.

Frustration. Fear. Anger. Hopelessness. Despair.

I don't write about these things because I know how to solve them. I write about them because I wish I did, especially within myself.

I've spent my life trying to figure these emotions out and why they seem to affect me more than others around me. I've needed this not only for my own sanity (yes, I see the irony of using that word today) but also in hopes that someone, anyone will understand a fraction of the way my mind works. This feeling, whether it turns out to be true or false, has been the driving influence of my need to build the facade of lies. The wall that both protected me and provided me with the attention and approval I have craved but seldom found in my life.

I once had a friend tell me that everyone around me both liked and didn't like me: that the two people I existed as was far more known than I had ever realized. I thought I had done a good job of hiding it, but they knew. He said that the person I presented myself to be was the person everyone liked; the nice, giving funny person I always wished I could be. He also told me that the person beneath was detested by people. This was the terrified, emotional aggressive person I was trying to hide. He didn't know what was going on with me and how my internal conflict was tearing me apart but what he had done was confirmed what I had always feared.

People didn't like who I was. People liked who I pretended to be.

This was the person that knew me best in the world, even better than my mother knew me in most ways, telling me I wasn't worth knowing because he told me these things the last time we ever communicated. I had tried to be honest with him, to tell him of the turmoil in my mind. It was me begging for help, and he turned his back on me, never speaking to me again. In three and a half years, the pain he caused me has never subsided.

Now I have to go to my psychiatrist appointment and try to explain all of this. How am I going to do that when I can't even explain it to myself?