1-The noise was back…
…A few days earlier it was faint. I was getting edgy. Nothing too serious. Then I started to struggle with sleep. Then eating. Then I started isolating. The new medication didn’t seem to be working.
I told Linda I wasn’t feeling well. I called another alcoholic for support. I went to a meeting. But the noise got louder, and I couldn’t make it stop. I broke a computer mouse. Then my glasses. Red fucking flags for sure.
The next morning, the noise was so loud I almost couldn’t hear anything else. I told Linda I was thinking about suicide again. Then I told her it had passed because I didn’t want to hurt her (even though I clearly was). I didn’t want to be a bother to anyone. And plus, I had some work that had to get done.
So I did the work. Noise grew louder. I played Blackjack, and the noise briefly went away. I played as long as I could, and when I stopped, the noise stormed back. It was deafening. I was beat. I was afraid too because I love my life. But that fucking noise. It doesn’t care about that. It wants me.
And so the noise keeps coming.
I took the bus from the casino to downtown L.A., and that’s when I posted this on my Facebook:
I’m feeling like killing myself again. I know I shouldn’t feel this way. But I do. I have so many amazing people in my life. So many good things. But the emotional pain I feel right now…that’s not even the right word…there are no words to explain it. It’s instinctual.
I’m losing the battle. I want to get help. I reach out but all that is doing right now is highlighting the limits of that help.
There are a lot of great resources out there. But you have to have the resources to get the resources. Fuck all.
Maybe I am weak. All I know is I’m doing the best I can.
I’m tired.
I’m going to the Emergency Room now.
I wrote this while sitting outside the Metro Station on 7th Street and Figeuroa, in downtown Los Angeles. I was sitting on the ground with my back against a granite pillar, watching the oncoming foot traffic while listening to Brian Eno’s “Emerald and Lime” from Small Craft on a Milk Sea. The sensation was as if I was watching a film of my own life. I felt completely disconnected from my body. From everything. The technical term for this is dissociation.
I was waiting for Linda to pick me up and take me to the Emergency Room. I had wanted to take myself—not wanting to burden her—but she talked me into waiting.
A quick note about the Facebook post: I know it was bush league. And desperate. But I also knew that the one thing I had to do was get to the emergency room before the ideation grew too strong. I also knew that I didn’t want to go, and so by announcing my situation publicly it would force me to go to save face. I also wanted to articulate in real time what was happening in keeping with the blog’s mission: to really document our experience with PTSD. Good, bad, and everything in between.
I’m so grateful for the love and support shown to me, to Linda, and to my family through the crisis.
And spoiler alert: I did get the help I need.
2. Emergency Room, UCLA
You step into the waiting room.
You present your ID.
You wait.
You get triaged by a nice man. Let’s call him Danny. He asks you why you’re here. This is the crucial question, and he knows it. (You know it because this is your second trip to the ER in as many months.) You take a deep breath. Can you do it? Yes. The noise is loud. You don’t really want to die so you say that you do. I feel like hurting myself.
“Do you have a plan?”
“Yes.”
And that’s it. You’ve just tripped the legal lever that will keep you safe by detaining you for eight hours while they evaluate whether or not to enact the 72-hour hold.
Danny calls a security guard, who escorts you back to ER HQ where doctors, nurses, and others zig zag through the maze of patients on gurneys. You end up sitting one row over from a twenty-something in handcuffs whose in the middle of a lecture from the mental health officer. “You need to settle down,” she says.
“And you need to fuck off,” the young woman says.
The security guard pats you down, goes through your things, then instructs you to change into a hospital gown. There’s no going back now. Everything you do and say will be used to evaluate your safety and fitness.
You do what they say.
You have to.
And so you change into the hospital gown.
Now…you’re ready.
3. The Padded Room
The psychiatric holding unit consists of two patient rooms and a viewing office. It reminds you of a lethal injection chamber. You’re led into the room. Your phone is now forbidden. Everything is, actually. Your fiancé joins you but has to leave her purse in the office. There’s a bathroom, but the security guard has to open it for you, and then one of the staff have to stand by with the door open while you pee.
You’re safe. This is the point of it all. But the safety does not come without a price.
During this part of your stay, you will be greeted by a friendly psychiatrist. Let’s call him Phil. He will ask you the same questions Danny did an hour earlier. Then he will throw one more question in there: “What do you think went wrong last time?” referring, of course, to your last 72 hour old.
You realize that this is your moment to be heard. To get the help you need. You like Phil. He’s hip. He’s cool. He’s rad.
Discharge Plan, BHC Alhambra
Spotlight up, center stage.
You step forward and deliver your monologue.
You: When I was discharged from BHC Alhambra, they handed me a “discharge plan” that included an appointment with a psychiatrist at Hollywood Mental Health with the following instructions: Bring snacks and entertainment because it’s a three-hour wait. You are referred to Hollywood Mental Health because it is one of the few places in all of Los Angeles that will accept your insurance. So I did just that. Showed up on time. Brought work to do (as I was missing a half day of work to be here). I brought snacks—water and two nutrition bars. Three hours in, I was called into the hallway and told they were too busy and would not be able to see me, and that they would have to reschedule…but, and this is the good news, since I had shown up on time, they would give me an appointment with a two-hour window instead of a three-hour in two weeks instead of four weeks. I should note here, in the middle of this monologue, that the purpose of the visit to a psychiatrist is singular: to deal with meds. Since it was the Lexapro side effects that caused me so many problems before, landing me in my first 72 hour hold, I was keen to address the meds. To say this appointment was important doesn’t quite get at it. To not see a psychiatrist is a set up for failure. The good news, of course, is that I had an appointment in two weeks, just within the appropriate timeframe for good care.
(beat)
So I returned to the office two weeks later, this time with Linda in tow. And like before, one hour in, I was called into the hallway, and they cancelled my appointment a second time. The man offered another appointment in two more weeks, but that was not in time to get my meds refilled, and so I had to go to an urgent clinic for mental health where I waited four hours to have a psychiatrist whom had never seen me before refill my mind-altering prescriptions.
(beat)
One week later, my insurance was cancelled because I have a job—yay!—but the timing was not awesome. We found new insurance—yay!— and so we started calling around again to find a new psychiatrist. Turns out very few psychiatrists take my new insurance. Turns out my new insurance was the Kia Rio of insurances, and to see a doctor, I needed the Mercedes Benz.
(beat)
And then the noise started.
Spotlight down. You recede from center stage. You wait for the audience to applaud.
You’re back at the emergency room with Phil. He doesn’t applaud, but he does smile. “Boy, I wish I could send you to some of the psychiatrists I know. They’re amazing doctors. Really great people too. They really help their patients. They’re the best at what they do.” Here he pauses for dramatic effect, then: “But they’re cash only and they cost an arm and a leg…so, moving on.” He scrolls through the options on the computer. “Nope…not that one either…hmmm…this is difficult…there’s one.” He turns to me, smiles. “Have you ever tried Hollywood Mental Health?”
I wanted to punch him in the face.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Fuck! Aaron!!!! Exactly- exactly exactly. The system is so screwed. How do we survive? I’m so happy you’re still here. And you’re so … good… for still participating in this run around they give us that is not TIME CONSUMING- it’s every-second-of-your-conscious-life consuming. 😔 I would have punched him in the face. Keep speaking. I’m listening.
This is a Kafkaesque scenario that encourages a “normal” response to be turned on its head–yea, the cookoo’s nest. I am so in awe of the strength you are showing in documenting both your vulnerability and the crazy making roadblocks the ‘system” throws up. Your ability to confront this, Aaron, and willingness to share how trauma infiltrates our very “beingness” is a blessing to all who share in this. Thank you for allowing me to absorb, albeit vicariously, your pain and slowly, but surely, your gradual strengthening from and through it. p.s. all the love that you draw from those in your life, ‘ain’t worth nothin” It has power, as you know, better than most and you more than deserving of this grace.