Today, after months of waiting for an appointment with a new psychiatrist, I went full of anxiety. On the way there I resisted the urge to take my emergency Ativan. At least, until I got really close. After looking for a spot to park, I was frustrated that I had to park on the hospital parking lot. I thought I'd just park there since I had only 3 minutes to make it on time. But after seeing the price for one hour, I balked and angrily drove away. There was no way in hell I was going to pay $4.50 for one hour, since it would expire 3 minutes before my appointment was over and by the time I got there, I probably would have gotten a ticket since those parking attendants patrol those lots like sharks. I didn't even bother to look at how much it would cost for 2 hours. There was nothing in between 1 and 2 hours.
So, I drove around and finally found a lane spot across from a church, though still within walking distance to the psychiatrist's office. I paid a $1.50 there. Reasonable. I walked into the building a couple minutes later. I saw two elevators which I did not want to take as I was already nervous enough, so much so that I wanted to flee home but I made myself stay because I hate standing people up and I thought that this was my last chance to get some professional help. I didn't want to wait anymore. To my shock and anger, there was only one stairwell and it led DOWN. Into the basement I think from the first, ground floor. My appointment was on the fourth floor in Outpatient Psychiatry. I asked around and nobody knew. Finally, gathering some courage, I took the elevator up to the fourth floor, heart in throat.
The woman who was with me in the elevator also got out on the fourth floor and I asked her if there was a stairwell. She said there was but that it was LOCKED.
I was fuming. Thinking how it was against fire codes and I felt like it was inaccessible to me because of my disability. I just could not get into an elevator. While I was up there I searched for the psychiatrist's office but all I could think about was that elevator. Because of previous experiences of waiting for an elevator to come, I was terrified. I felt trapped up there. The hallway was narrow and windowless and full of offices with closed door that I fled.
On my way out I decided I would call whomever was responsible for that building and demand that the doors to the stairwell be unlocked. I was not about to give up this opportunity of getting professional help for my panic and agoraphobia which is spiraling out of control.
When I got home, I called the psychiatrist's office, first to tell her why I couldn't make and secondly to ask her whom I should talk to about the stairwell issue. (This may not seem like a big deal to most people, but for me, it is a serious obstacle. One too many. It's hard enough leaving the house and driving in traffic to an appointment in a stuffy car with no air-conditioning on a hot day while hyperventilating.)
Anyway, what she told me made sense. The psychiatrist's receptionist told me that there are people, or rather patients on that floor who are there against their wills and thus the doors must be locked so they don't leave. I told her that that was scary. She agreed and then told me that when I come to my next appointment to call and someone with a key will come down and let me in. Of course they'll also have to unlock the door on the fourth floor when I leave and walk with me down to the ground floor and unlock that door as well. Phew. That has an unpleasant feel of a prison. And I am so claustrophobic and terrified of being locked in anywhere that this will definitely be a challenge at least for a while until I get used to it.
The building itself is not a hospital but is next to it and I think the patients who are admitted into the psychiatric ward of the Royal Columbian Hospital, attend sessions with their psychiatrists in that building. I don't think anybody actually lives there. I am not afraid of those people, just the locked stairway.
One last disturbing thought.
I don't think that I would ever have the guts to attempt suicide, and that's a good thing, because you can never be sure if you'll succeed. And failing would be worse than death if it meant being locked up like an animal, no matter if that is what's best for you.
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