What I Learned In The Hospital

(note: this will be a multi-pat post because of it’s length. this is part one (1); all other posts on this same topic will be numbered accordingly.)

Part 1

No one drives themselves to a hospital at night because their life is going great. One of the prerequisites to going there as a patient is that something has to be wrong; a sore throat, the flu, various traumas, and broken bones are all reason enough. My reason this trip was a slightly different, though no less sever, problem that I’ll get to later.

I knew that something wasn’t right. That it hadn’t been right for a very long time. Most people of acceptably good health should at least feel as though they are acceptably healthy. I felt good sometimes, really good, but I felt bad a lot more often. So, I came to the end of my rope. And luckily I found a knot to hold on to. Something had to give; I had to have some relief in one form or another. The “another” part of that last sentence was a pretty gruesome option, but it was looking more and more feasible, even sane. Luckily, thank God, I made the only healthy decision I could make. I called the 1-800 number.

The lady on the other end surprised me when she picked up. I half expected a machine offering me various and sundry prompts from which to choose, leading to still more prompts and more frustration. Startled, I began talking, explaining my situation and problems. She was a great listener, and suggested I come in for a little “counseling”, which was available 24/7 to people such as myself. I drove up, excited that I could finally talk about these problems with someone who could understand.

I talked. And talked. It seemed that I talked for hours. I was only interrupted by the councilor when she asked a question about this or that, which led to more talking and deeper self inspection. Wow, this really helps, I thought. She told me that she had a few ideas about what may be wrong, or what may be causing my problems, but reminded me that she was not a doctor and that she was in no position to offer up any diagnosis. After a few more questions, a small amount of paperwork, and a smoke break, she strongly suggested that I stay a while. It is not politically correct to say that I was committed to a mental institution, but that is exactly what happened.