My Life As A Fanfic (Or Shoujo Manga?)
Well, yesterday I came home from the psych ward after staying there for about two weeks. I am still struggling with Deeper Bullshit from all sides, but I do kind of feel better. I think.
Before anyone worries if I did something stupid, don't worry: I didn't. Not this time. In fact, what happened was that after a week of radio silence from my green-haired idiot, his response to my pleas to have a sober conversation about what happened (via text) was pretty douchey, and I kind of fell apart. In a breakdown terrifying kind of way. Eventually I was on the phone with my therapist and she suggested I take a ride to the ER so I would be safe, because at the time, I was home alone and really felt like I was going to do something dumb. Again. So that happened.
After two nights in the ER, they advised me to check myself into the psych hospital, and I agreed. It's something that probably should have happened after the first time I tried to off myself, but for whatever reason, it didn't. (Which probably wasn't my fault, though I now feel incredibly guilty about it, because I feel like these problems might have been curbed and I wouldn't have hurt so many people if so.) I had gotten in touch with my roommate, and I had told her to tell Green-hair that he shouldn't worry that it was his fault I was there, that I was doing this for myself, but I still couldn't help but fall back on trying to call him from the ER, because it was scary and I guess old habits die hard. I did eventually get a hold of him right before they admitted me into the hospital, which I think had to do with the fact that he had apparently texted me that he was ready to talk and that he stood by his decisions (which I didn't see until I got out, as I didn't have my phone while in the hospital). I guess what he didn't expect was to be told that I was checking myself into the psych ward and that I'd meant to do something like this for a while and really needed the help and the therapy. He said he was confused and didn't want to make any promises about the future, and admitted he was wrong when I called him out about trying to handle my troubles without the help of a doctor (a thought I had thrown out to him when things were just fine). He also said that I was strong and could work through everything when I told him I was really scared, and then casually reminded me I still owed him dinner at one of our favourite restaurants, and perhaps we could go when I got out. I said, "I'd take my boyfriend there. You get the dollar menu." Which seemed to amuse him, as he said, "McDonald's it is then." The call dropped about the time I told him he was a beautiful person... or so he says....
Anyway, the time in the hospital was good for healing, and I got myself on some good meds and set up with some super specialized therapy, which starts tomorrow. I think it'll help me a lot, though it will be a lot of work. Apparently, my checking into the psych ward was a game changer for my Green-haired moron, as he apparently didn't have a real grasp on how deep-rooted a lot of my bullshit is or how it gets fucked up when my fucked up brain tries to process it. And that here I was actually doing something for myself without feeling the need to lean on him. I still kind of wish he would support me through all this crap, and maybe that will come a few months down the line, but I guess the break is good so that I can focus on myself. My one friend told me that he's got his own bullshit to focus on and deal with, but that he still concerns himself with asking my friend how I'm doing. I guess that's promising, especially considering we haven't spoken more than five minutes in the past three-ish weeks. Same friend said he's worried about hurting me, which I guess makes sense, though it still also kind of bugs me. Suppose he really is just as confused as I've been told about how to handle this shit. On the bright side, much as I still care about him and love him, for once, I'm focusing on my own mental health, and I suppose he is doing the same. It almost feels like he's just realized the person next to him is actually drowning and could use some floaty wings, but he's unsure really how to blow them up or even get them deployed.
Cue the montage of both of us sitting by windows and watching the rain (or our own reflections!) with glum looks on our faces.
Before anyone worries if I did something stupid, don't worry: I didn't. Not this time. In fact, what happened was that after a week of radio silence from my green-haired idiot, his response to my pleas to have a sober conversation about what happened (via text) was pretty douchey, and I kind of fell apart. In a breakdown terrifying kind of way. Eventually I was on the phone with my therapist and she suggested I take a ride to the ER so I would be safe, because at the time, I was home alone and really felt like I was going to do something dumb. Again. So that happened.
After two nights in the ER, they advised me to check myself into the psych hospital, and I agreed. It's something that probably should have happened after the first time I tried to off myself, but for whatever reason, it didn't. (Which probably wasn't my fault, though I now feel incredibly guilty about it, because I feel like these problems might have been curbed and I wouldn't have hurt so many people if so.) I had gotten in touch with my roommate, and I had told her to tell Green-hair that he shouldn't worry that it was his fault I was there, that I was doing this for myself, but I still couldn't help but fall back on trying to call him from the ER, because it was scary and I guess old habits die hard. I did eventually get a hold of him right before they admitted me into the hospital, which I think had to do with the fact that he had apparently texted me that he was ready to talk and that he stood by his decisions (which I didn't see until I got out, as I didn't have my phone while in the hospital). I guess what he didn't expect was to be told that I was checking myself into the psych ward and that I'd meant to do something like this for a while and really needed the help and the therapy. He said he was confused and didn't want to make any promises about the future, and admitted he was wrong when I called him out about trying to handle my troubles without the help of a doctor (a thought I had thrown out to him when things were just fine). He also said that I was strong and could work through everything when I told him I was really scared, and then casually reminded me I still owed him dinner at one of our favourite restaurants, and perhaps we could go when I got out. I said, "I'd take my boyfriend there. You get the dollar menu." Which seemed to amuse him, as he said, "McDonald's it is then." The call dropped about the time I told him he was a beautiful person... or so he says....
Anyway, the time in the hospital was good for healing, and I got myself on some good meds and set up with some super specialized therapy, which starts tomorrow. I think it'll help me a lot, though it will be a lot of work. Apparently, my checking into the psych ward was a game changer for my Green-haired moron, as he apparently didn't have a real grasp on how deep-rooted a lot of my bullshit is or how it gets fucked up when my fucked up brain tries to process it. And that here I was actually doing something for myself without feeling the need to lean on him. I still kind of wish he would support me through all this crap, and maybe that will come a few months down the line, but I guess the break is good so that I can focus on myself. My one friend told me that he's got his own bullshit to focus on and deal with, but that he still concerns himself with asking my friend how I'm doing. I guess that's promising, especially considering we haven't spoken more than five minutes in the past three-ish weeks. Same friend said he's worried about hurting me, which I guess makes sense, though it still also kind of bugs me. Suppose he really is just as confused as I've been told about how to handle this shit. On the bright side, much as I still care about him and love him, for once, I'm focusing on my own mental health, and I suppose he is doing the same. It almost feels like he's just realized the person next to him is actually drowning and could use some floaty wings, but he's unsure really how to blow them up or even get them deployed.
Cue the montage of both of us sitting by windows and watching the rain (or our own reflections!) with glum looks on our faces.