On July 24th, 2012, I committed myself to Palos Community Hospital.
It was the best and the worst day of my life.
I had my first panic attack in November of 2011. I was trying to fall asleep and it felt like I was fading away. I sat up and my heart was racing. I ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Nothing. I ran to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Nothing. I tuned out the sound of my heart beating at what felt like 300bpm. My childhood instinct kicked in. “MOOOOMMMMMMMMM!”
I had no idea what was going on. My parents had no idea what was going on. My mom told me to breathe. My dad told me to relax. I felt like I just had a near-death experience. How on earth was I supposed to relax?
I stayed up on the computer for another hour. I had officially gone full blown hypochondriac. Was I having a stroke? A heart attack? A seizure? Was I actually close to death? I gave up. I was still breathing. I put on some John Mayer. Focusing on the music instead of my pulse or my consciousness helped me relax. It’s a coping skill I still use today.
The next few months involved plenty of doctor visits. EKG became a household term. We even sought out a cardiologist to do an ultrasound of my heart. My primary care doctor told me to run 20 minutes a day and to call him if I had any trouble. I felt like I was in the clear.
The sleepless nights went away. I felt better. Things were going to be better.
—
Summer 2012. The final movie of Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy was coming out at midnight. Though I was still living in Chicago at the time and I should have had more of an emotional attachment to the first two, the city of my dreams, Pittsburgh, was the scene of the third and final film. This was the first time I had extended a midnight premier invite to my little brother. He was excited to tag along and snag a free Bane poster. This was going to be fun.
A group of eight of us showed up to the theater. We were early enough to sit in the exact center of the auditorium for, in my opinion, the best viewing experience. My brother had just started using a smartphone and was playing a game where you identify brand logos. The lights dimmed and the previews finished.
This is when my life changed.
My chest tightened. It burned. I felt trapped. I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t the same thing I felt in my bed in November. This was death. I was going to drop dead in the theater. In a movie theater of 500+ people, I was going to die.
I had no choice but to dart out of my row over two couples who gave me the dirtiest look imaginable. Nothing was in my favor. I was going to die after all.
I got a drink of water. I splashed water on my face. I pulled my hair. I slapped my hand. I slapped my face. I took deep breaths. I was okay. I had to be okay. I could still see myself in the mirror. I could feel my pulse. I could feel myself inhale and exhale. I could do this. I was fine. Now how much of the movie had I missed?
Oh, a gunfight in a bar. This is interesting. How did we get here? I leaned over to my brother to have him fill me in. But before I could ask, I had to dart out of my row again. Back over the couples and their dirty looks. Another round of “down in front!”
I sat on the bench outside of the theater. I couldn’t go back in there. I drank more water. Put more water on my face. Slapped myself silly. Felt my pulse. Felt myself inhale. Felt myself exhale. What was wrong? I texted my buddy to drive my brother home after the movie. I was going to the ER.
The last scene I saw that night was the gunfight in the bar. My dad picked me up to go to the hospital.
Blood tests. Chest X-rays. EKG’s. Another ultrasound. The results?
“Joe, you have the healthiest heart I’ve seen in this emergency room tonight.”
What. The. Hell.
Why didn’t he understand? I was about to die! How did he not get that?! Something had to be wrong. He gave me some Advil and said I would be fine.
When we got back in the car, I checked my phone. My Twitter feed was going nuts about what just happened in Aurora, Colorado. The time of the first gunshot inside of the Century 16 movie theater from mountain to central time was nearly the same time I left the theater to go to the ER.
I felt like I was going to die. Again. What if that happened at my movie theater? What if I left my brother in there with a gunman? Could you imagine? All I could do was imagine.
Friday I imagined. Saturday I imagined. Sunday I imagined. Monday I imagined. Tuesday I imagined.
I went to bed early Tuesday night. I was trying to finish The Office. I couldn’t calm down. I tried some herbal tea and over-the-counter concoctions, but nothing worked. At 10:00 p.m., I attempted to sleep.
At 10:30 p.m., I didn’t feel like myself.
At 11:00 p.m., I started imagining.
At 11:30 p.m., it felt like something was in my head.
Midnight, Wednesday, July 24th, 2012, I was not in control. I was terrified of knives in the kitchen. I was terrified of scissors in the bathroom. I was terrified of the corners on my dresser. What if I just decided to hurt myself? What if I just decided to hurt my family? I didn’t want to. But what if I did? My childhood instincts kicked in again. Except instead of, “MOOOOOMMM!” it was “I don’t know what’s happening to me and I think I might hurt myself.”
I distinctly remember my dad taking me downstairs. The 1979 World Series was on ESPN Classic. I tried to focus on the game while he looked for a hospital with an open bed. He made a few calls and we were good to go. I was going to a psych ward.
My mom came downstairs and hugged me. I was tearing up in front of my family. I felt so helpless. My brother made it down to say goodbye before the front door shut. I wouldn’t be back in my own bed for another five days.
—
Seven hours in the emergency room.
Seven. Hours.
I was admitted as the psychiatric nurse in the ER was taking her lunch. A schizophrenic man was in the room to the left. An alcoholic in the room to the right. The main ER doctor came in.
“Did you just have a panic attack?”
“Well, yeah but -”
“We’ll probably just send you home.”
SEND ME HOME?! ARE YOU JOKING?!
“Well, can I see the psychiatric nurse first?”
We waited. Again. My poor father had to leave for work in an hour. He pulled an all-nighter for me.
This was it. I committed myself. I signed off. My dad left. The nurse asked if I wanted to walk upstairs or be wheeled upstairs. After waiting in a bed for seven hours, I elected to walk.
“You’re not going to run on me, are you?” she asked.
It became clear. I was a looney. I was a nut job. I was a crazy person. I figured I’d be in a padded cell. What had I done?
—
“Sorry to wake you. Blood work.”
I had slept for two hours. By the time I got into my bed, it was about 7:00 a.m. They brought pancakes and a concoction of medication. I had a sheet, a tiny bed and a cranky old roommate who hated me. I was in the back of the psych ward. This is where the real crazies went. I didn’t even have common room privileges. I was trapped.
At some point, my mother and brother visited me in my medicated daze. I still don’t remember that. I felt like a zombie. I was being questioned minute by minute. Doctor after doctor. I just wanted to sleep.
I slept till 4:00 p.m. and was transferred to the “normal” people rooms. That gave me free access to the main room with the TV, fridge, rec room and all that other good stuff.
The first night I was very nervous but I eventually opened up and made friends. I went to groups and talked about my problems. I met alcoholics, drug addicts, along with other anxious and depressed people like myself. I met some people that will be an inspiration to me for the rest of my life.
—
Here I am now 1,375 miles from home – something I couldn’t have imagined being able to do on July 24th, 2012.
The only reason I was able to turn everything around and make something of myself, was because I talked about it.
Nothing was more embarrassing than being 21 years old and running into my parents’ room for help. But had I not run in there like a little kid again, I don’t know if I’d even be around to type this anymore.
I’ve had friends write my problems off. I’ve had people tell me to “just stop being sad.” I didn’t need those people. I don’t need those people. You don’t need those people.
Those people are why we need to talk.
In November of 2011, I thought I was having a heart attack. I had no problem telling my parents something was wrong.
On July 24th, 2012, I had no idea what was wrong. I hesitated for two hours. I was scared they would think I was crazy. I was scared to speak up. I was scared to talk.
That is why we need to end the stigma.
Have a conversation. Talk about it. Talk about how you are feeling. Ask others how they are feeling. You have no idea how much it may help someone.
I started a conversation. That conversation saved my life.
So, let’s talk.
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