The Time I Was Sent To The Hospital, Part 1

Many of you have reached out on Instagram to share stories with me about your journey with living with bipolar disorder, and I’m forever grateful to listen. Today, I’m going to share a story with you. One that has haunted me, changed me, and made me realise a lot. Before I get into it, though, if you haven’t already read my first post, I’m linking it right here for you—Bipolar Disorder: The Best Club Ever. I’d love it if you considered giving it a read, sharing it, commenting on it, liking it, or whatever you fancy! Everything helps! Get ready to feel the feels because today I’m sharing the time I was sent to the hospital.

It Was December 18, 2019—the Night I Was Sent To The Hospital

I’m going to tell the story as if I’m reliving it. I think that would be the easiest. The story makes me feel very overwhelmed, so bear with the emotions, please. It was December 18, 2019. It was 2 months before I was about to turn 30. I felt enormous pressure to hurry up in life and do the things I was “supposed” to do. I had a 7-year-old, a 4-year-old, and a 2-year-old. I was in this constant state of exhaustion basically all the time. My youngest was very clingy, and my oldest was really challenging. My middle one did everything she was supposed to do all the time. (I sort of think she was always trying to keep the peace.)

Lost In Messy Motherhood

My house was chaotic, messy, and loud every day, all day. I felt so lost in it. Day after day I’d wake up and go through the motions, never really being alive. Never really feeling anything but lost and confused. My oldest was beyond challenging for me. He always was. He was very violent and aggressive, and my days were a constant pull between being what he needed and making sure my other two children were safe, as he would often hurt them. It was the darkest time in my life. I constantly felt like what I was doing wasn’t working and I couldn’t be a good mother. I doubted myself every second of every day. I didn’t have support people nearby, and the support I did have came with judgement.

One day, it was December 18, the last day of school before Christmas break, and my oldest had been trying to attack my youngest repeatedly. We were locked in the bathroom while he tried to break down the door. I sat there sobbing endlessly. I was clearly failing at being a mother, but no one could help me. We had already had countless visits to the doctor trying to figure out why my oldest was so aggressive, and we never got any answers.

Calling The Crisis Line

I picked up the phone and called the crisis line. I was met with hostility immediately. I was a mom, struggling so much, and I was met with judgement. “How bad can it be?” “They’re your children.”. I knew all these things. I knew I was failing. I knew something was wrong. Wasn’t the crisis line supposed to help me?

I hung up and tried to text a different crisis line. I wondered if texting would make it easier to communicate. I was in tears, and my oldest son was throwing everything he could find. I was huddled over my youngest, just wishing I could close my eyes and never awake. I told the crisis line that I was thinking about taking all my pills. Everything was out of my control, and I couldn’t do anything. The lost feeling I felt was so unbearable. And there was no one I could tell. My husband was there, of course, but he worked long hours. But besides him, I was in the deep of it on my own. Lost doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt.

I hung on tightly. Tried to find peace in my youngest eyes and be the mom that he thought I was. The one he deserved. But I was also resisting the urge to take the pills. I wanted it to stop. This type of outburst happened every day, any time my oldest was home for any length of time. So it being Christmas break now meant he was home for the next two weeks. This felt suffocating to me. What was I going to do?

My husband got home around 8 pm, and we took a trip to the local grocery store. I wanted munchies and to have a warm bath and go to bed. I was drained. My body hurt from being kicked, hit, punched, and bitten all day. I felt like I wasn’t even a person at that point. At this point, I didn’t know what to do.

“Are you Natasha?” Before The Hospital

As my family and I walked out of our grocery store, we noticed there were two police SUVs in the parking lot. The officers slowly got out and made their way over to us as we were loading up the car and juggling the three kids. “Are you Natasha?” one of them asked. I replied that I was, and he immediately asked me to follow him.

My heart pounded in my chest, terrified of what was to come. My anxiety spiralled. Maybe someone could tell how unhappy I was, and I was going to lose my children. Maybe, who knows. I was at a loss. My husband was taken to the other SUV now parked beside our car, and I to another. I was questioned about being suicidal and asked what my children would think, which was ironic, because I was just trying to take care of them. I was doing the best I could do. The officer asked if I had anyone to call for help in those moments, and I didn’t. I was in it alone.

After a few minutes in the police vehicle, it was confirmed that I had to go to the hospital. I was spiralling. The hospital was the last place I wanted to be. I wanted to go home and have my bath. I didn’t want to go to the hospital and answer more questions about what an awful mother I was. The hospital was the last place I wanted to be.

Come back next week to read the next part of the story.

Love always,

Bipolar Babes Club