This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
(Trigger Warning: Mention of past suicide plan)
I came home from the hospital yesterday.
I walked into an empty sink and empty trash, but there were still obvious signs of my depression.
I needed them gone. I needed to pick up the pieces that I had left scattered around as my brain fell apart around me. I needed to sweep away the evidence that showed I was gone for almost a week. I needed the house to return to normal as quickly as possible.
I needed to reclaim my space.
I was exhausted but driven by a need that I couldn’t put words to. I hadn’t yet figured out why I was straightening the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge. Why I was changing the litter and cleaning my desk. Why I was cleaning my craft room and doing my laundry.
I just wanted to sit down and play with relaxing things that I hadn’t had access to all week and I couldn’t let myself.
So I kept going through the house, cleaning this and that, working from one thing to the next until I had finished picking up all of the pieces left behind by my depression. Until I had finished putting everything back in order.
We returned the 365 count bottle of Benadryl that I bought that last day home (with every intent of ingesting it along with a bottle of wine). We discussed whether or not any of my new meds were dangerous enough to be locked away.
And then we got dinner at the one place I had been craving the entire time I was eating hospital food (RoFo Fried Chicken of all things). And we got me the first real coffee I’d had in nearly a week (Holy Shit I missed coffee).
I sorted my meds for the coming week with the new dosages in place.
Eventually, everything was done, I felt like I had picked up all of the pieces. I went to bed knowing I had wiped the slate clean.
From this episode.