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My Experience With “Getting Help”…

Mama said gonna be alright
But mama don’t know what it’s like in my mind
Mama said the sun gonna shine
But mama don’t know what it’s like to wanna die…

My Experience With "Getting Help"...

It’s a long post today… bear with me…

Consider this trigger warning, if the title did not give it away.  This post is of a very serious nature, and deals with some very deep and potentially triggering subject matter such as suicidal ideations/thoughts, self-harm, verbal and emotional abuse, isolation, and extensive, in-depth explanation of an experience in both an ER on ‘suicide watch’ and in a mental health facility.

This story is mine to tell… and while i wasn’t quite ready to tell it so soon after getting back, circumstances have made it such that i have to be ok with it.  Honestly, it’ll probably be a bit theraputic to get it all out, and i’d planned to blog my experience because it was a bit crazy, but i guess i just didn’t think i’d be doing it so soon after i got home.  Oh well, here we go…

This is the story of the time i went to “get help” from a mental health facility.  Aka: A mental hospital.

i went to bed Tuesday (10/8) figuring i would be fine in the morning.

Because keep in mind, i’ve been unmedicated, mental health wise, for 2 years now.  i didn’t have insurance, couldn’t see my therapist, and the doctor i was seeing refuses to write mental health meds – wants them prescribed by a mental health professional.  Which, understandable… just inconvenient at the time.  So, like, i’m used to having moments like that, and i’ve always been able to pull myself out of my own head.

But this time was different.

By Thursday (10/10) i was still just… not myself.  i could tell, my RL mother could tell, a few P/people close to me could tell.  i knew inpatient treatment was an option for my particular condition, i had just never looked into it before.  With newly-acquired insurance, it was truly an option, and i started Googling around, looking for what to expect, and talked to a friend who had recently stayed as well.  It was a terrifying experience, to say the least… but one article in particular smacked me in the face… talking about signs you should probably check yourself in… and one of the signs was, “If you’re Googling whether or not you should go… you should probably go.”

Ok, Universe.  i get it, fuck you very much.

i took several deep breaths, picked up my phone, and called the intake line for the facility that would be my ‘preference’.  You know, if i had ever thought i’d had to declare a ‘preference’ of what mental institution i wanted to be committed to.  It was owned and run by the same company that my therapist and Nurse Practitioner work with, so i figured continuity of care would be easier, and i figured it would be easier for me to trust myself to their care, since i already see them for therapy anyway.

The operator answered, greeted, identified herself, asked how she could help.

“Hi, i was just looking to get some general information on _________ Hospital.  Do you know if it takes _________ insurance?”

i was trying to breathe, and keep my voice from breaking or shaking.  Apparently i failed.  Because the next thing i heard…

“Are you currently experiencing a mental health crisis?”

There was silence that felt like eternity while i truly considered if i was still in crisis.  And in that moment, i just couldn’t take it anymore.  i was so exhausted, trying to manage everything ‘on my own’ (i.e. without medication – i acknowledge that i have a support system of a few friends and some family)… i’d done it mostly successfully (definitions vary) for so long that i just couldn’t do it anymore.  i broke down and cried and admitted, “i don’t know.”

She transferred me to a wonderfully nice lady, the on-call therapist who talked me down until i could at least breathe, and talked me through my options.  She encouraged me to take myself, if i was able, or have someone else take me, to the hospital i was inquiring about.

In that moment, the only person i really know in the area that i could trust to do that would be my RL mother, and while NOW i understand she would have woken up at whatever time and done whatever she could for me in that moment, my mind was screaming at me that i was a burden on her… and E/everyone else, for that matter… and so i didn’t call her.  i packed a couple changes of clothes, some paperback books, a journal, some personal hygiene products into a bag, grabbed a jacket without drawstrings, and got in the car.

i had every intention of driving myself to that hospital, a mental health facility.  i truly did.  However, as i started to drive, suddenly i was overwhelmed – and i mean truly OVERWHELMED in a way i never have been before – with thoughts of how easy it would be to just… drive my car off the road and let that be it.  It was so simultaneously terrifying and inviting that i turned around and instead drove myself to the ER at my local hospital.

After all, when you call the intake line for the mental health facility i was originally driving too, the answering service says, “If this is an emergency, please hang up and call 911 or proceed to the nearest emergency room.”  So i did.

i hyperventilated and nearly threw up while i recounted everything above to the registrar who gave me tissues, took me through some deep breathing, and reassured me that i was ok now… i was somewhere that would help… everything would be ok… i was so strong for coming in… etc.  All the things you always hear in these situations.

i sat in a corner of the ER waiting room, clutching my bag and jacket and riding out the fullness of one of the longest panic attacks i’ve had in a long time, complete with staring by onlookers.  Triage came just in time… i was about to have an actual moment and lose my shit on one lady in particular that kept staring and wouldn’t stop, with this goofy-ass grin on her face…

It occurred to me while telling my mother about it one night on the phone that she wasn’t looking at me at all, but was, instead, looking at the tv mounted on the wall above me.  Panicked me didn’t care.  Sane me realizes how stupid i would have looked had i said anything to her.

i was given an ER bed at midnight on Friday (10/11).  i was placed on a bed in the hallway at first, because when you tell them you’re wanting to kill yourself, there are only certain places you’re allowed to be in the ER…. you’re not allowed to have a door… you’re not allowed to have a lot of cables around you… you have to be within eyesight of the nurse’s station… it’s a real fun time to have strangers walk past you while you’re in your darkest moment, but hey, if it keeps you from offing yourself, then so be it.

The doctor did his rounds… this asshole of a man… let’s call him Dr. Charming, because he was anything but.  This is the conversation that occurred…

Dr. Charming: What is it you’re here for?
me: -trying to be discreet- i’m here… for… i’m having a bit of a… mental health crisis…
Dr. Charming: So what kinds of things are you feeling?
me: -inaudible stuttering and shaking, unable to articulate anything understandable-
Dr. Charming: So why didn’t you drive yourself to _________? ((The hospital i was originally going to.))
me: i was going to, but when i got on the road… i just… all i wanted was to drive off the road… -more inaudible stuttering-
Dr. Charming: Well there’s more than one way to get to _________.  You could’ve just called a cab.
me: -starting to fully sob and shake again-
Dr. Charming: Well we’ll get labs and a urine and stuff but I’m not sure what all we can do for you here.
me: i’m sorry.

Yes… *i* apologized to the Dr… for ‘wasting his time’.  My nurse saw the end of this exchange, and after the lab had seen me – leaving a fabulous bruise from the draw, because it’s pretty hard to hit a moving target when one is in the middle of another panic attack – and someone else had checked out, she cleaned out one of the other ‘rooms’ i was allowed to be in and moved me into a bay that at least had a curtain she could partially pull and lights she could turn off so that i could try to sleep.  That’s all i wanted to do was sleep.  Especially after that doctor.

She came in to give me medication.  A blood pressure medication because of course it was understandably elevated, in addition to having Hypertension anyway, and 2mg of Ativan.  “Hopefully this will help you sleep.” She gave me that pity look.  i hate that look, but she had been kind so far, so somehow my brain didn’t feel like snapping at her.

“Do i have to deal with him again at all?”  From what i could tell from her reaction, i must have looked genuinely afraid of having to interact with Dr. Charming again.  She relayed – generally, not breaking HIPPA of course – that i was not the first person to have an issue with him, that he was new to the night shift in this ER, and that no, i wouldn’t have to deal with him again that night.  That i was kinda ‘on hold’ until the case manager would come in in the morning and start looking for facilities i could be transferred to, because this hospital didn’t have a Psych floor.

i mean… i didn’t want to trust my mental health to that hospital to begin with, so good.  Lol.

The Ativan only helped me sleep for 45 minutes.  i was delirious with sleep-deprivation at that point, exhausted from the after-effects of the multiple panic attacks, uncomfortable on the ER stretcher/bed… i just wanted sleep.  i remember that being my sole desire in that moment.  More than help, more than medication to make my brain stop, even more than wanting to die in that moment, i just wanted to sleep.

About 6 or 7 hours later, my nurse comes in and says she has to move me back into the hallway.  Cue another panic.  Something about being in your lowest moment and being once again out in the hallway to be seen by literally anyone in a room with an open door, and anyone passing by just felt humiliating and intensely triggering.  As soon as she saw tears, she gave more of that pity look that i hate and asked, “Do you want to talk to my charge nurse about it first?”  Before i could even answer, she said, “I’m going to wait and let you talk to my charge nurse.  Because I don’t really like it either.”

10 minutes or so later the charge nurse comes in, introduces herself, tries to act nice.  i try to calmly explain that i really didn’t want to go back in the hallway and she immediately cut me off to try and tell me how it was ‘going’ to be and her attitude was just so cold and detached it threw me over the edge again.  But then she said that magic phrase…. that magic collection of words that really set me off…

“I understand how you feel…”

“No, you don’t understand.  Unless you’ve been right where i am, you cannot possibly understand how i feel right now.  And it is my understanding that patients are due a certain amount of dignity, and if you put me in the hallway like this, that is stripping away the last bit of dignity i have right now.”

She completely ignores everything i say and starts getting pissy with me, “Did she even TELL you why we have to move you?”

“No, because it’s irrelevant.  i don’t care about being moved, that’s fine.  It’s WHERE you want to move me TO.”  Keep in mind, i’m still hicc’ing and trying to breathe at this point.

She launches into some explanation about how this is how it’s ‘going’ to be again, etc.

i try to explain, again, about dignity, ending with, “And your condescending attitude isn’t making the situation any better.”

Like… seriously.  Let this be an object lesson to any of you if you’re dealing with someone in crisis… don’t talk down to them, belittle their feelings, or try to invalidate them.  It just makes shit worse, and generally makes you a garbage human being.

She repeats her broken record bullshit, and i get to interrupt her this time, i’d had enough, and just said, “It’s fine.  Do whatever.  It’s clear you haven’t had any sensitivity training to deal with those in mental health crisis.  You are not making things better, you’re making them worse, please just leave, do whatever you need to do.”

i had to repeat the request for her to leave three times, and only when i started to get a bit louder did she actually leave.  i suspect to avoid a ‘scene’.

i was, in fact moved, but i was moved into a room i wasn’t supposed to be in, but the room was rearranged to put the bed right in front of the door so i could be seen from the nurse’s station, all the cords were removed, etc.

i couldn’t tell if this was a, “Go ahead and off yourself, fuck it, i don’t care,” move from her, or an attempt to compromise.  Panicked me though the former.  i’m pretty sure it was the latter, and i thanked her for such before i left.

9am rolls around and i meet the Case Manager, a super nice lady that i’ll call Julie.  Julie introduces herself and outlines the process she’ll be following… calling and faxing information to mental health facilities and seeing if they have a bed in their facility for someone who fits my ‘case’ (i.e. adult, non-geriatric female).  She would spend most of her day doing this.

By the time she leaves at 7pm, she had come back in to inform me that she couldn’t find a bed that day, and that i’d be staying overnight that night… in the ER.  That’s not really the norm, but they didn’t have a facility to take me, and none of the Hospitalists on the other floors were willing to accept responsibility for a ‘suicide watch’ patient.  They brought a hospital bed in from a closed wing of the hospital so i wasn’t on the ER stretcher anymore and i slept there in the ER that night.

And for 2 more nights after that.  Saturday and Sunday were both unsuccessful all-day attempts at finding a facility.  If you’re not aware, American in general, but specifically Alabama is terrible for mental health.  There were, like, 4 facilities here within 250 miles of me, and all 4 of them were full.  It’s rare for discharges to occur on weekends, because the doctors aren’t there as much (whereas during the week, they’re there every day… but we’ll get to that part)…

Monday rolls around, and about mid-afternoon, finally i get the word we have a bed…. in a facility 3 hours away.

Keep in mind, at this point i was on Day 4 in the ER and this is the amount of care i had received…

  • 1 random blood pressure medication i have never taken before, the name of which i don’t remember, 2 hours after i got there, Friday morning.
  • 2mg of Ativan 2 hours after i got there, Friday morning.
  • A full dose of ONE of my blood pressure medications (i normally take 3 different ones) on Saturday evening.
  • A full dose of ALL of my blood pressure medications on Sunday morning.
  • 3 meals per day

That’s it.  Even checking my vitals was rare.  And at this point i was still actively in crisis, in and out of panic attacks at times, especially when i tried to sleep.  And by Sunday night, my ideations were invading my dreams.  Every time i tried to sleep, that’s all i could see… i was starting to get truly concerned… and yet the ER was doing nothing to treat me, even one-time medications for the panic attacks.

They couldn’t really.  Their hands were tied by lack of protocols for this situation, and lack of training in how to handle it, and ignorance.  The nurses expected me to ASK if i needed a medication for a panic attack.

ASK.  For a controlled substance.  Because what would THAT look like in our current drug problem… and also, when i’m already experiencing that overwhelming feeling of being a burden on everyone, what the fuck makes you think i’m going to ask for something i need?  Yeah, not going to happen.  And it didn’t happen.  The only thing i asked for while i was there was 1.) Not to deal with Dr. Charming again (He worked Saturday night and Sunday night too, oh joy, but didn’t even LOOK at me… i don’t know what my nurse from Friday night charted, but she’s a damned Saint), and 2.) For a new bracelet because the first was put on quite tight and was cutting into my skin.

7:45pm rolls around and i’m strapped to an Ambulance gurney starting a 3-hour journey to the mental health facility that has accepted to treat me.

i admittedly had a couple of mini moments of panic in the ambulance, for multiple reasons… 1.) i’d never ridden in an ambulance before, 2.) It was a 3 hour ride and the gurney is incredibly uncomfortable, and 3.) i didn’t know what to expect.  i’d researched facilities, read blog posts like this one (ok, not as long-winded) about peoples’ experiences in Psych Wards or in mental health facilities, and i still didn’t know what to expect, because they all said the same thing…

Each facility is different.

**Note: If you have not been triggered up to this point, this is the part where i go in-depth into my experience in the mental health facility, and i will relay in detail some of the things i experienced, some of the people i was locked in with, and some of the restrictions placed on us and the reasons why.  This could get kinda dark.  You have been warned. **

When i arrived through the ER entrance, i had to remain strapped to the gurney until a nurse could come out and receive us and let us know the next steps.  After all, if i was let free, i could bolt, or hurt myself, or hurt someone else.  After a few minutes of fidgeting, i finally asked if i could use the bathroom.  i had to be accompanied by a Security guard who stood outside the door, but i was at least allowed to pee.  After a 3 hour ride, thank god for small miracles.

Oh, before i could pee, the Security guard had to wand me to check for weapons.

Next, i was taken into one of the ER rooms with a nurse.  i had to change into paper scrubs.  i was reassured i’d only have to wear them for the first 24 hours, and then i could wear my own clothing.  Just until they knew they could trust me to not hurt myself or anyone else.  i was not allowed to change in the room alone, in privacy.  The nurse had to be present and watch me change.  i came back out in my new, horrendously uncomfortable paper scrubs and sat back on the gurney.  They immediately ripped.  The sizing wasn’t the greatest, nor was the material.  The nurse took me back into the exam room and told me to just change back into my regular clothes and she’d tell them that they’d just have to make due.

My paperwork was finished and i was given a bright purple Inpatient armband with my information on it… my name, DOB, Admission date, the Psychiatrist i was under the care of… and i was re-strapped to the gurney to be taken upstairs.  Once we got to a certain door, i was allowed to be unstrapped and walk.  The Ambulance driver stopped at the Nurse’s station to get the ‘transfer of care’ form signed while i was escorted down to a conference room with uncomfortable metal black chairs and a table.

At first, it was just a Tech and an RN in the room with me.  The Tech meticulously took everything out of my 2 bags (mom brought me some more clothes in another bag, so i brought it and my original bag with me) and inventoried them on a piece of paper, dividing them into categories… things i was allowed to have with me… things i was allowed to have, but would be kept in a toiletry box at the Nurse’s station that i would specifically have to ask for… things i wouldn’t be allowed to have back until i left… while the RN asked me questions about my medical and psych history.

“You’re probably not going to be allowed to keep this.”  He was holding up one of the books i’d brought.  In my haste to simply grab things i hadn’t read before, i hadn’t thought about the fact that it was a hardback book.  It was classified as a potential projectile weapon and was kept in my shoulder bag and placed in the ‘things i can’t have back until i leave’ pile.

i couldn’t keep either bag, because the straps were too long.  i might hang myself with them.  Or someone else might.  Or someone might use them to choke someone else out.  Too many risks.

My phone charger cord somehow survived being in the bag even though i gave my phone to my mom at the hospital.  This was placed in a clear biohazard bag and stored in the nurse’s station to be given back to me when i leave.

More questions, more of the Tech picking through my bras and underwear, counting and inventorying them by color and style.  He pushes the paper towards me and asks me to look it over and sign if everything was there and accounted for in the different categories.  i signed it.

“Here is your handbook with your rights, responsibilities, an overview of what to expect here…. i have to take the staple out of it…” the RN was telling me.

Now i’m signing papers, the Tech disappears into the hallway to get me a sandwich, a Nurse Practitioner comes in.  One of the papers i sign is a Suicide Contract, that basically promises i won’t harm myself during that shift, and that if i want to, i will talk to someone about how i’m feeling instead.  i’m told i’ll be signing one of these contracts every shift, so twice a day every day, during my stay.

i nod.  i’m kinda numb.  i’m exhausted from the ER stay, grateful to be somewhere i could finally get some help, but just… numb.

i’m taken to my room.  My roommate is already fast asleep.  The door has to stay open at all times, the hallway light is always on.  i’m in the bed by the window, which of course isn’t an actual window.  There’s a weird mesh type covering built in to the wall with about 8 inches between it and the actual window.  So i can’t get to the window and escape or jump.

The room has 7 things in it: 2 beds, 2 laundry baskets, 2 trashcans (no trash bags, you might suffocate yourself or someone else with it), and a desk that is literally bolted into the wall.  The hard plastic bedframe has 2 cubbie holes cut into it for you to put your clothes on.  The bed has one incredibly flat pillow, a sheet, and a blanket.  i would later come to learn it was incredibly uncomfortable, but i could still sleep on it when i was exhausted enough.

i was shown the attached bathroom… in an effort to describe the material the bathroom ‘door’ was made out of… you know the wall padding that is behind both basketball hoops so that if you run in for a shot and can’t stop yourself, you’re not running into solid wall?  It was a slab of that material… the ‘hinge’ was a long magnetic strip to hold it to the doorframe, and the ‘door handle’ was a strip of fabric with a single magnet in it to hold it closed.

The toilet had a push-button flush… i assume because a handle could be removed as a projectile.  The sinks were sensored, because faucets would pose the same problem.  But my ‘favorite’… oh, my ‘favorite’ thing was the shower… it was push-button as well… but when you pushed the button to start the water stream, it would only stay on for 60 seconds at a time.  So you had to push the button again to get more water.  Because if the water stayed on too long, you could figure out a way to drown yourself…

You also had no way of adjusting the temperature of the water.  After all, you could scald yourself.

You didn’t get a mirror.  Just a shiny piece of metal bolted into the wall with literally 12 bolts over the sink.  Because you could shatter the glass and use it to harm yourself or someone else in… so many ways.

These are the only things my mind could think of that first night, and the first full day after that… all the ways that they prevented you from offing yourself.  i set the things i was allowed to keep with me (didn’t amount to much… my clothes, my journal, 2 paperback books, and the unstapled handbook i’d just been given) on the bolted desk between my roommate’s bed and mine and just curled up under the covers and cried myself to sleep.

They woke me up for vitals at shift change at 7am.  i went back to sleep before breakfast.  i was woken up again at 7:45 for breakfast, and i ate.  i figured this was the part when i would be told what kind of routine existed.  Or my roommate would introduce herself.  Or something.  But… nothing.

i was just kinda expected to figure it out.  And suddenly… i was overwhelmed again.  Being inside this facility that was supposed to help me suddenly became more triggering to me than being outside it with no medication and no coping skills to manage my break. i went back to my room and laid back down and just… cried.  Again.

My roommate came back in… talking.  i thought at first she was talking to me.  i quickly realized she was talking to herself.  She would talk to me later that day, though, and tell me how she was there because her parents put out a hit on her.  That her mother wanted her dead because she thought she’d get insurance money.

On my first phone call i was allowed later, i’d tell my mother i was pretty sure i had a Paranoid Schizophrenic for a roommate.  “You never half-ass anything, do you.”

The first 2 hours of that first full day were hell.  i had every intention of calling my mother at noon when i was allowed to use the landline phone at the nurse’s station and begging her to come get me the next day when she got home from work.  i couldn’t see this program being beneficial to me.  It seemed at first glance like it wasn’t just Adult Psych, but Adult Neuro and Psych, and most of the patients’ Psych issues were secondary to their developmental disabilities.  i was one of very few lucid people there and it just made the whole experience feel so alone and isolating… i didn’t think i could handle it.

i got up and went to the first ‘group’ scheduled for that day… the Activities Director talked about how it was National Grouch Day and she let everyone choose a song to play on her iPad that was a song that always made them happy.  i chose the title song from The Greatest Showman.  That earned the ire of one of the other patients who looked at me and declared that she didn’t like young people.

Wonderful first start.

i went back to my room and rather than crying in bed again, i started reading one of the books that i brought with me until we were called for lunch.  At lunch, when most of the unit gathered together, i realized how small it was.  10-12 of us, maybe.  It was a single hallway, so i knew it wasn’t too big, but it occurred to me just how small it was.  At lunch i met one of the only other lucid people there, and one of only 2 men.  Let’s call him Darrel.  Darrel talked to me a little bit, revealed he was in there for a combination of ‘mental health’ (he didn’t get specific and asking felt rude) and substance abuse problems… but the Psychiatrist didn’t know what to do with him because he’d had to wait so long for a bed, he had detoxed in jail (where he was waiting)… and most of the reason he was supposed to be there was detox.

Still, he was nice.  He invited my to learn/play Spades with him and the only other 2 lucid people in the unit.  Though i use the term ‘lucid’ loosely for my partner.

You’re not trusted to be an independent human being.  Everything is monitored. The Techs have a clipboard… they mark down what you’re doing every 15 minutes… are you in your room, if you are, are you showering, sleeping, in the bathroom, reading, etc… are you walking in the hallway… with a visitor… are you in the day room.  It’s like a fucking score card of how well you’re doing.

Oh, the day room, i almost forgot.

The TV in the day room was behind this plastic/plexiglass wall, because of course that’s definitely a projectile weapon, and i’m sure a hospital of that size doesn’t have the budget to be replacing the tv for accidents or rage fits.  The trash can?  Absent of trash bags again… had a paper bag in it instead.  The chairs were literally so fucking heavy when you tried to pull them out from the table to sit at the table… and today i actually found out why…

Psychiatrist: They’re filled with rocks.
Us: -laughing, thinking he’s joking-
Psychiatrist: No, literally… they’re actually filled with rocks.  That’s why they’re so heavy.

Because, you know, there will be no table or chair flipping in the day room.  There were some physical fights though, in my 4 days there, and a few almost-fights.  No one went to Seclusion during my time there.

Oh, what’s Seclusion, you ask?  Literally the rubber room.  Except the walls weren’t actual rubber.

Overall, i think i’m still kinda traumatized from the whole ER/lack-of-care experience.  Like…it takes SO much for a person to reach out and ask for help… there i was literally begging for it… and in the interim while they were looking for a place that could provide the help i needed, i was essentially peeked in on occasionally and ignored by most of the staff.  i wish i could say i was spoken to once a shift, at shift change, but even that isn’t true.  Those first 4 days of my journey to “getting help” were hell.  i almost gave up and went home, which would have required signing out Against Medical Advice.

i honestly can’t tell you what would’ve happened if i had gone home.  As dark and morbid as that sounds, i’m just being honest, because i promised people i would be in this post.

As for my experience in the actual Psych Ward, i was slightly disappointed in the lack of one-on-one therapy and group therapy, but with the patient base that i was in there with, i understood WHY the ‘groups’ were as basic and limited as they were.  In terms of the Psychiatrist and his Nurse Practitioner, he was nice, and she listened to me when i had a concern about the medication she first tried me on and changed me to something else immediately.  The something that i was discharged with.

i have just come home today (Friday), so please bare with me while i re-set my own routine at home… and adjust to my new medications… and go to my follow-ups on Monday… and figure out how to continue “life after the Psych Ward”.

i’m sorry this was so long.  But at the same time, i’m not.  This is my story to tell, and no one should get to steal it from me.


Special note: In this post, i tried to wear only things i would have been allowed to wear on the ward, with the exception of the piercings in my ears that i only noticed after the fact.  So the shorts have the optional belt hidden, because belts and ties of any kind were not allowed… the cardigan is worn because the unit was cold and i spent a lot of time in a jacket or cardigan… the shorts would’ve been a bad idea in a unit that cold, but still technically allowed… i wanted to show you all as accurately as i could what those 4 days were like for me…

Shape || Mine
Head || Genus Baby Face W001 (v1.6) | Genus Project
Body || Freya Body BENTO (v5.2) | Belleza
Skin || Evy Skin (Cocoa Tone) | ItGirls
Hair || Gabriella Hair (Monotone) | Doe | Collabor88 | recent!
* Cardigan&Top || Can’t Relate Cardigan With Top | Blueberry | new!
* Shorts || Can’t Relate Shorts & Belts | Blueberry | new!
Nose Bandage || Bloody Bloom Bandage | Revoul | Salem | recent!
Facial Cuts || Bloody Bloom Collection | Revoul | Salem | recent!

Backdrop || The Ward (Black) | FoxCity | Uber | recent!
Pose || Breather V3-1m | FoxCity

Location || Home

Blogging Tune || “I Can’t Carry This Anymore” – Anson Seabra
(This song can be intensely triggering to anyone in a depressed, anxious, or suicidal state.  Please do not lesson if you are easily triggered by these themes.)

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