...and then there were six...

Attempt 6 was ugly. Not physically (i.e no blood, no ambulances), but emotionally. It took me places the previous attempts hadn't.

It was a week after we got back from the camping trip. She was really down, it had been a hard week for her. The same recurring issues at work, and now, because she's only working part-time, she's worried about our money situation as well. But the kicker this time was her therapist. She sees her twice a week, on Tuesday nights in a group setting, and on Thursdays one-one-one. The group session are always hard for her...she has to deal with her social phobia issues, as well as talk about the other things she working on, so it's a double-whammy. The group sessions do her a lot of good, overall, but they really take it out of her.

Anyway, this particular Tuesday, she had an emotional group session, and as the group was breaking up, her therapist, H, came over, gave her a big hug and said, "So, I'll see you tomorrow." Unfortunately, this was wrong. Normally she sees her again on Thursday, not Wednesday, and H was leaving for vacation Wednesday afternoon, so the regular Thursday sessions was cancelled. It was a simple mistake; H had just forgotten the details, but in my wife's head, all these mistakes were combined into a big rejection. Never mind the fact that H had just hugged her and praised her for the positive work she had done in group... in her mind, the facts that 1) H was leaving for a week, 2) H didn't remember that the Thursday appointment was cancelled, and 3) H was leaving for week (listed twice, for emphasis) all combined to make her feel like just another name in an appointment book, a case to be filed away for a week while H took a vacation. She has rejection and abandonment issues, as well as having a hard time trusting people. All these things hit her at once, and she was....devastated. (I know, that seems like a strong word for what, to you and me seems a minor misunderstanding, but the nature of her issues gives this kind of situation immense power to drag her deeper into her depression. Devastated is not an overstatement).

By the weekend, this had piled up, and she was feeling the pressure. She came into the computer room where I was working, and we talked for a while about things. I tried to be calm, understanding, sympathetic, rational... all the things I usually try. At one point I said to her, "I know that what happened Tuesday feels like H rejected you, but can you at least step back from the situation far enough to see, rationally, that it probably wasn't the case, that H didn't really reject you, and that its more about your interpretation than actual facts?" I was stunned when she answered "No. I can't see that."

I tried not to get too wrapped up in it, letting her have some space, and keeping some space for my own sanity (Thank you, D!). We talked some more, and she started to calm down, seemed to turn a corner. She said she felt better, and was going to go downstairs to "do some homework", i.e. write in her journal, read some of her support books, try to get back on track. I thought this was a great idea, and took it as a good sign.

Within 5 minutes, my mind kicked into paranoia mode. "What's she doing? Is she OK? What was that noise? Did she buy another gun? Should I go down there?" Meanwhile, the other side of my brain is saying, "Calm down. She's OK. Don't let your imagination run away with you. You're overly sensitive. She's fine. Keep working. Focus. Stop being so paranoid." After about 15 minutes of this, my nerves were shot. My hands were shaking, my stomach was in knots, I couldn't focus on what I was doing. I fought every urge to check up on her. Another 5 minutes went by, and then I heard one of our 4 dogs barking.

Our dogs are all house dogs, and they follow thier "Mommy" around constantly. One in particular is a real momma's-boy, and this is the one that started barking. I could tell from his bark he was upset; it was his "I can't get to where mommy is" bark. (Those of you without dogs may think this is my imagination, but if you have dogs, you'll know that you can tell a lot from thier bark). I waited another minute or two, pacing the room, trying to get myself under control, but it was no use. The barking assured me that *something* wasn't right, and I had to go down there.

I got to the bottom of the steps and saw the door to the guest bedroom closed. It's usually always open. Panic was in full swing by now, and when I tried the knob and found the door locked, I went over the edge. Previously, when she had locked herself in the bathroom, I calmly went and got a paper-clip to pop the lock open. No such control this time. I took two steps back and kicked the door right next to the knob with everything I had. The lock was pretty flimsy, and the door flew open, but the room was empty. I went in to find that the bathroom door also closed. I tried the knob, and wasn't surprised to find it locked as well. I banged with my fists, and went into a rage. "You open this f***in' door right now!" I screamed. I waited all of maybe two seconds, then started wailing on the door. I kicked it once...nothing. A second time...trinkets started falling out of the display box on the wall, but the door didn't budge. I kicked a third time and actually cracked the door near the knob, but the lock held. By now I was insane with rage. I think I may mave been grunting/yelling the way some tennis players do when they serve, just a gutteral release of anger. I kicked a forth time and heard more wood splintering. The fifth kick actually split the door frame from the latch down to the floor, and the door flew open.

I remember there were some candles burning, and there was an open beer on the counter. Next to the beer were all her prescription bottles, open, lined up like little soldiers. Her journal was there, open, a pen laying beside it. She had made herself a little nest/deathbed on the floor with a bunch of pillows and blankets. She was standing in the middle of the room, a drink in one hand and a fistful of pills in the other. I don't know what I expected her expression to be, but the blank stare on her face only added fuel to my rage. I lost total control of myself and just started screaming at her. "You are NOT gonna f***in' do this to me again! What the f*** is this for? I can't believe you're f***in' doing this!! I refuse to let this happen again! This is the last f***in' time!"....and so on like that.

I usually don't swear much, and I probably used the f-word more times in that first 60 seconds than I had in the last year. The whole time she just stood there with a blank stare. I think I grabbed the pills from her hand, but maybe she put them back in the bottle herself. I don't remember if she tried to speak or not...I wasn't listening anyway. I don't recall how we got upstairs, but the next thing I remember was standing at the kitchen, yelling at her to "get your f***in' shoes on, I'm taking you to the hospital!"

"Please don't take me there!". She was crying by now.
"You're going! I don't know what else to do with you!"
"I don't want to go!"
"The only choice you have it whether to go barefoot or not. Now either get your f***in shoes on or go out to truck without 'em, I don't really care which."

I gathered up all her pills, her journal, and her purse. I picked up the address book cuz I knew I'd have to make some calls to the family. Then I grabbed a jacket for her (it was a little cloudy that day, and I sure couldn't take her out without a raincoat, could I? Jeez, the way our brains work....) I grabbed my keys, opened the door and practically pushed her out. She was crying pretty heavily, as scared as I was mad. She got in the truck and I slammed the door shut. I backed out of the driveway way too fast, and remember being amazed that my tires actually squealed when I put it in drive. I got out to the main road and realized I had forgotten my cell phone, so I u-turned back to the house. I got out, then thought I better bring her in with me so I could keep an eye on her. "Get out of the f***in' truck and come with me!". She was still crying, but I think she thought we were going back to the house because I had changed my mind. I'm ashamed to admit now that I was happy she thought that, because it would make going back out that much harder for her. Phone in hand, back out to the truck, more squealing tires, and we're on our way.

It's about 20 minutes to the hospital from our house. I think I drove it in about 12 minutes. I'm amazed I actually took the time to stop at one of the two traffic lights on the way. And the whole time, I kept up my verbal assault. I wanted to pummel her with my voice.

"You know what I want to know? What the f*** did I ever do to deserve this from you? What have I ever done that was so awful that you want to hurt me this way, over and over?"
"It's not you, it's me. I don't do it to hurt you"
"I don't f***in' belive you. Why should believe a single f***in' thing you say? Of course you do it to hurt me. There's no other explanation."
"But I love you, I'd never try to hurt you intentionally."
"I don't believe you."
"But its the truth!"
"Here's what I learned from you. Truth doesn't really matter. The only thing that really matters is how I feel, how I choose to interpret things. If I feel like you do it on purpose, that's all that matters, facts be damned. That's what you've taught me."

We finally got to the hospital, adn I got out of the truck. She got out her side and started walking towards the road.
"Where the f*** do you think you're going?"
"I'm going home!"
"What are you gonna do, walk 20 miles back?"
"But I don't want to go in there!"
"I don't give a sh** what you want, you don't have a choice!"

I grabbed her wrist (probably too hard) and literally started dragging her towards the door. She was pulling back, like a dog that doesn't want to go to the vet. I pulled harder, still yelling at her. I noticed there was an ambulance up ahead, and two big, burly EMT's were watching what was going on. "You either come in with me, or I'm gonna go get those two guys to pick your sorry a** up and carry you in there!" I made sure I said it loud enough for them to hear. She knew I wasn't bluffing, and started walking on her own.

We got into the emergency room, and I almost felt like people would greet us by name. "Hey! Nice to see you again! The usual?" I filled out the paperwork, and we waited in the foyer for them to call her in for admittance. She kept asking if I thought they'd let her go home, rather than admit her. "I hope not" was all I could say. They took her vitals, and we walked down to the emergency room proper. They gave her a hospital gown, and after awhile the nurse came in with a 16-ounce foam cup willed with an activated charcoal slurry for her to drink. This is supposed to absord the drugs that were still in her stomach. The first time she tried to OD, they handed her the cup and I told her it was a big chocolate shake. She was so out of it that she drank it down in about 20 seconds, slurping up every last drop. Not so lucky this time. She knew what it was and had to force herself to swallow it. It took a couple minutes, but she eventually got most of it down. She laid back and closed her eyes, trying to get some sleep. I went into one of the waiting rooms to start making phone calls.

I was gone maybe 20 minutes, and when I got back, there were several nurses with her, and a woman from housekeeping with a mop and bucket. Turns out she had goot sick and vomited all the nasty black charcoal back up, all over herself, the bed, and the floor. I just stood there, wondering what else could happen, feeling pretty numb by this point. I just wanted this all to be over, to go back home and not have to deal with any more crisis. I sat in the chair next to her bed, stroking her hair. After everyhting was cleaned up, they left one of the nurse-helpers in the room with her, to keep an eye on here. She wanted to talk, but I didn't have the energy. I think we sat there for another hor or so before they finally came to wheel her down to the Behavioral Sciences ward.

I went with her to the ward, but its a locked facility, so I couldn't go in. We said goodby in the lobby. She was crying again, and apologizing. I don't think I had any emotions at all. I was drained by the fury I had felt, and just wanted to go home and sleep. I kissed her, assured her I would be back for visiting hours that night, and would remember to bring her some clothes. She asked me to please bring her Bible, too. I said I would, hoping she'd find some comfort in it, wondering where I might find some too.