Waiting room

The burning in my chest and pins and needles in my shoulders mounted for weeks, my feelings completely mute. Little things like doing the dishes or taking the bus somewhere were quickly become much harder to do. I felt on edge all the time, stiff and uncomfortable. It entered my mind to go to the hospital, but it didn't seem called for. My therapist asked me, “What's the feedback from all this anxiety? What is amiss?”

So I put that question forward to my anxiety. When I sat down in front of the computer I was numb and paralyzed; when I did anything else the anxiety made me feel I wasn't in the right place. The nervous energy was familiar and before I would've drowned it in booze or, at least, turned on the television and zoned out. For once, I was just sitting there listening to my heart pound in my chest and asking it, “Why?”

Finally, I couldn't take the constant waiting anymore; waiting for it to get better, for it to get worse, I had no idea. I went to the emergency room and told them I was bipolar and having a lot of panic attacks. They said they would get me into see someone as soon as they could. I waited for four hours, all the while my chest exploding and subsiding with what I pictured to be white flames, until I was finally exhausted and started to let my guard down and close my eyes.

A nurse woke me when he called me back into a room. I waited on the hospital bed for just a few minutes when the social worker came into see me. She was an older woman, round in a just-baked-some-cookies kind of way. I wondered if she had kids of her own. If she didn't, she might be more apt to take care of me.

“Well, I looked at the chart, but tell me, what seems to be the problem tonight?” she asked cheerily.

“I have bipolar disorder and this anxiety has been building up for weeks and now I'm having panic attacks. I've never tried to responsibly manage my bipolar disorder before, so I don't know how long I have until I completely fall apart. I noticed the anxiety is starting to impair my functioning and I've even fallen back on smoking marijuana so I thought I would come in and see what you could do for me,” I heaved in one restless, expansive rant.

“Ok, that's great,” she nodded. “Tell me, are you suicidal right now?”

“No, just the opposite. Right now I feel like I wanna get through this.”

“I'm really glad to hear that,” she said as she smiled at me warmly. “And you're not homicidal?”

“No.”

“Are you hearing voices?” she asked calmly.

“No,” I hesitated. “Not really. Not like I used to.”

“Well,” her voice hinted at regret, “you don't meet the criteria for acute care. We might be able to get you into respite. But it sounds like you're doing everything correctly and that you're okay. I think you're best off trying to take care of yourself at home.” She obviously had kids of her own.

There was a stab in my chest that was sharp, like both disappointment and relief. I went home, smoked a bowl, and sat down in front of the computer.