Nothing screams “Focused on self-care” quite like consenting to IV-sticks, anesthesia, getting strapped, getting wired, and getting in a hospital-issued diaper before 8:00 a.m. It sounds dehumanizing, and yeah, it is a little, but I got used to it quick enough, probably because I practically grew up in a hospital. Call me Frankenstein’s Mistress. I have the electricity and scars; the only thing I’m missing is the neck bolts. Shockingly, I’m still waiting to come alive and out of this deep, dark, debilitating depression.
The movies, particularly horror films, have not done ECT justice and further lead to stigma around this mysterious torture — I’m sorry — treatment. I’m joking. It’s definitely not torture in the slightest. In fact, I don’t feel a thing during, and I’m completely unconscious when they zap my brain and cause the seizure. When I said I was strapped and wired, I don’t mean in four-point leather restraints like you’ll see in every movie ever where ECT is shown. I have a blood pressure cuff strapped to me, and electrodes that measure ECG (heart) rhythms, EEG (brain) waves, and SpO2 (oxygen) levels.
No leather restraints. No hardcore convulsions. No broken bones. And no torture, just hot-burning sleepy meds and then… nothing. Waking up can be a little rough, though. The first ECT treatment, they had difficulty getting me to seize, and I was quite agitated upon waking up. Still no traumatizing restraints, just some extra-feel-good relaxing meds — we’re talking benzos, here — and then calmness again. The total time from start to finish was about twenty minutes, and eight of those minutes I took the world’s shortest nap while jumpstarting my brain reboot. Or as I like to say, riding the freaking lightning, baby!
Excuse the cringe. I was hoping coolness would come with age, but after working with teenagers and young adults, I’ve been told I’m outa whack.
Borderpolar Files 
Leave a comment