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<blockquote data-quote="flutterbee" data-source="post: 89677"><p>Mikey,</p><p></p><p>Let me share a very personal story. I never talk about this, but I think it can help you and it might help others on the board.</p><p></p><p>In August, 2002, I was hospitalized with severe depression, bordering on psychotic depression. To say I had suicidal ideation is an understatement. I *fantasized* about it. It finally reached a head. I was at work and called a friend who was a co-worker and asked him to meet me for lunch. If he hadn't, I was planning on leaving work and taking a bunch of pills. We called my therapist who told me to go to the ER. I went voluntarily. I explained everything to the social worker who came to talk to me. My friend called my mom who came to the ER.</p><p></p><p>Then, after a couple of hours, the social worker came to tell me that they were admitting me. I became very irate and angry. Even though I had gone voluntarily, I didn't want to be admitted. I was terrified. I didn't want there to be anything wrong with me. She told me that I could go voluntarily or involuntarily, but I was going. </p><p></p><p>My mother, at that time (and still some today) didn't understand. She was very angry with me. When they took me to the psychiatric ward (easy child term is behavioral health unit, but let's call a spade a spade), my mother said to me in a very nasty tone, "Well, how are you going to get yourself out of this mess." She didn't get it. She was angry that I was there like I was doing it for attention or running away rather than a desperate attempt to save my life. Had I not gone to the hospital that day, I do not think I would be here today.</p><p></p><p>My mom - and she and I are very close - still doesn't understand it all. We had a talk about it earlier this year and she said that she was very angry with me because she could see I was heading there and I wasn't doing anything about it. That I was making all of these bad choices and she could see what was coming. She doesn't understand that the depression - the illness - caused the bad choices. I was in survival mode. I was fighting to keep my head above water the best way I knew how. My best pretty much s-ucked. But it was my best at the time.</p><p></p><p>Mental illness and drugs inhibit the ability to make good decisions. When severe, it's almost a constant state of fight or flight. Pure survival. You only think of getting through the next minute. Worrying about next month, next week or even tomorrow is not even on the radar.</p><p></p><p>The longer this stuff goes untreated, the harder it is to treat. Please, get help for McWeedy.</p><p></p><p>ETA: The only reason I called my friend at work that day rather than just leaving is because I have kids. If I didn't have kids, I don't think I would have called him. They were the only thing keeping me alive at that point, and even that wasn't going to be enough if I didn't get help.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="flutterbee, post: 89677"] Mikey, Let me share a very personal story. I never talk about this, but I think it can help you and it might help others on the board. In August, 2002, I was hospitalized with severe depression, bordering on psychotic depression. To say I had suicidal ideation is an understatement. I *fantasized* about it. It finally reached a head. I was at work and called a friend who was a co-worker and asked him to meet me for lunch. If he hadn't, I was planning on leaving work and taking a bunch of pills. We called my therapist who told me to go to the ER. I went voluntarily. I explained everything to the social worker who came to talk to me. My friend called my mom who came to the ER. Then, after a couple of hours, the social worker came to tell me that they were admitting me. I became very irate and angry. Even though I had gone voluntarily, I didn't want to be admitted. I was terrified. I didn't want there to be anything wrong with me. She told me that I could go voluntarily or involuntarily, but I was going. My mother, at that time (and still some today) didn't understand. She was very angry with me. When they took me to the psychiatric ward (easy child term is behavioral health unit, but let's call a spade a spade), my mother said to me in a very nasty tone, "Well, how are you going to get yourself out of this mess." She didn't get it. She was angry that I was there like I was doing it for attention or running away rather than a desperate attempt to save my life. Had I not gone to the hospital that day, I do not think I would be here today. My mom - and she and I are very close - still doesn't understand it all. We had a talk about it earlier this year and she said that she was very angry with me because she could see I was heading there and I wasn't doing anything about it. That I was making all of these bad choices and she could see what was coming. She doesn't understand that the depression - the illness - caused the bad choices. I was in survival mode. I was fighting to keep my head above water the best way I knew how. My best pretty much s-ucked. But it was my best at the time. Mental illness and drugs inhibit the ability to make good decisions. When severe, it's almost a constant state of fight or flight. Pure survival. You only think of getting through the next minute. Worrying about next month, next week or even tomorrow is not even on the radar. The longer this stuff goes untreated, the harder it is to treat. Please, get help for McWeedy. ETA: The only reason I called my friend at work that day rather than just leaving is because I have kids. If I didn't have kids, I don't think I would have called him. They were the only thing keeping me alive at that point, and even that wasn't going to be enough if I didn't get help. [/QUOTE]
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