It takes minimum of two weeks to stabalize and another week or two for the psyche to set properly, similar to how one would regard healing from a serious bone fracture ... then, followed up by outpatient therapy to continue building up resiliance, strength and capacity for bearing a load.

It's quite a carnival in there: loads of characters and drama; totally take advantage of the freedoms you get to let it all hang out -- primal screams, mouthing off or playing along with the ridiculous activities they orchestrate like dancing or coloring with crayons; great, high-power drugs that will, within seconds, bath your entire body for about an hour in a blissful warmth where, there and only there, you finally experience what it's like to feel good in your own skin. (i.e. an Ativan PRN). You'll definitely have many, many great stories to tell or write about. You write very well IMO.

Just keep in mind that the nurses and orderlies and therapists and doctors, at least in principle, are all there help you heal -- to do the heavy lifting for you so that you can get you well and back on your feet.

If you're going to surrender your life, surrender it to them. They will take it and handle the all the business of your being alive until your strong enough to manage it again.

If I may ...

TL;DR - sharing my "experience, strength and hope" that came out of a similar situation as yours / check out https://projectsemicolon.com/

I was told by my uncle that I was in a coma for three days after turning in for the night with two slices of cold pizza from the fridge and a month's-worth of sleeping pills washed down with a Coka Cola.

There wasn't any fear in me as I felt the drowsiness overtake me as I layed supine and naked in the bed, looking at the back of my eyelids and knowing what would come momentarily — the end. 

Next moment, I'm pulling a tube out of my throat; IV's, electrodes and catheters everywhere, and I'm yanking them off me like that scene in the Matrix. The one stuck up my urethra was the worst. The tip was barbed.

I was very pissed off that I had woken up. Moments ago, I was feeling the comforting shroud of peace embracing me -- so glad that release would soon be realized, and now ... literally, in a blink of an eye ... crap! This s@!t again!

It came on the heals of a breakup and great disappointment. Also, like the "absurd twist" of your fart, I kept, unsuccessfully trying to alert nurse after nurse that buzzed in and out of the ICU unit how desperately thirsty I was after days of being intubated. My vocal chords were so bruised, though, they couldn't form any cohesive sound other than a raspy huffing. I mimed at them for H20; drinking motions, and, finally after having the nurse buzzer taken away from me — set aside and out of reach — I was brought a small dentist-sized Dixie cup of cold water only to be told that it would be all I'd get because of the drought that had been going on and had been in the news. The irony of the whole situation made me convulse with laughter and tears and more laughter.

That was more than 20-years-ago.

The takeaway: if death is anything like that three-day coma,iit felt just like the eternity that happened before I was born — Big bang, galaxies forming, Pangea, protoza, dinosaurs, great-grandmother, then, "hello world!" ... all that eternity, lasted, by my reckoning, exactly as long as those three days -- instantaneous. Like being unborn, there wasn't even an awareness there to known that there wasn't awareness.

And, considering that even a normal lifespan -- 80 years, give or take -- filled with mostly suffering is a really brief thing to endure with the eternity of oblivion that, to this day, I presume awaits me after this very, very short ride of something rather than nothing, I resolved to give any serious impulse to try again a three day moratorium. That is, if I still felt like following through with the same intensity for three days straight, then ...

Well, I never had to cross that road, 'cause the impulse would invariably peter out. One, two, three days later, things still sucked, but it wasn't overwhelming anymore, so f@$k it.

I spent the better part of a decade white-knuckling it through the days (even with the medication), simultaneously resentful to have to endure the daily agony, but knowing that it would be far more textured and immediate that the one I would likely have if I offed myself. Within all the rotten physical discomfort there was the off chance from time to time of having brief but real satisfactory period; or, surprisingly, I'd have rewarding and fulfilling moments.

It will all end soon enough, anyway, no matter how long it takes for "natural causes" to do the deed for me. Suffering the deep and abiding discomfort and psychic shock seems like an endless experience, but that's only because it's the only experience I'm ever going to know. It's kind of like how, in my childhood, each year seemed endless because each one was still a significant portion of the only thing I ever knew.

Also, I felt comforted by the handgun I kept in the drawer of my night stand; it gave me reassurance. In a twisted way, it put very definitely this whole affair in my control rather than it being what I experienced as a choiceless, punishing existence put upon me by all manner of circumstances that inspired my parents to get it on. The handgun gave me a sense of freedom akin to the sensation of wearing shoes one can wrigle one's toes in.

So, yeah, take it from me and the insights that came out of the coma when I tried to terminate the lease I had on life early. Even if it is and will be a mostly painful experience, it's something rather than nothing; and, despite appearances, we'll all rest in peace faster than Shiva can blink an eye. Patience is warranted.

Many years later, and as time went on my mind would still flit through images of hanging myself or throwing myself in front of a subway car when having a particularly bad moment. But,, eventually and without any particular effort on my part, I'd ignore it, not really giving it any credence. In other words, there was a gradual softening, a wilting away of that affect, and the whole notion of killing myself

— even the memory of having tried to do once, nearly succeeding — just seemed ridiculous — foolish. i saw those flashes of images as the habituated, knee-jerk reaction to having a really bad day or going through a period of adversity; it had become clear to me that the intensity would pass, and the image of a shotgun in my mouth was more of a remnant — an artifact or residual tick — that remained from that other person I used to be — the passionate, foolhardy and perpetually heartbroken person I was before all the hair on my scalp got in a wagon and settled on my back.

This is what you can expect in your future if you commit to sticking it through. This is the meaning of the cliché of "it will get easier." Perspective and a larger pool of XP under your belt is needed to start seeing what's around the corner; and, you'll never build up to that without having the curiosity to wait and see what it's like — it's worth it.

Mind you, I still struggle and every day is filled with dis-ease, and I still look forward to the day that my time is up. I see the years that have been alotted to me as having been away in a strange and, often treacherous, country— like Louis and Clarke. My time of dying, when I try to imagine it seems like a going home. 

I wish you well and the very best. I feel for you 'cause the road will feel long and hard. Somehow, there always seems to be a little bit left in the reserves to take one more step, no matter how hard it gets.

So, stick it out — please! You won't regret it.

Last thing: Check out Project Semicolon. It's a great launching point and resource for getting that help if you're looking for a place to start: https://projectsemicolon.com/

I remember somewhere on their site they had a block quote that said:

*"The semicolon represents a moment when the author could've ended the sentence, but didn't"*

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