Monthly Archives: January 2013
I thought more people would watch it if it was right here staring atcha!
It’s “making” right now. I did not “edit” the footage, only added a few captions and cut off the last second or two, which shows me shutting off the camera.
Funny, the whole time it was in the works, all I kept telling myself was “Gee, that wrinkle in my shirt sure looks yucky,” or, “Why do I look so darned much like my mother?”
At least I still sound like a little kid. Well, sorta.
Let’s just say I got inspired.
I was told yesterday how immoral I was for complaining. That other mental patients, “people like you,” the person said, do not have homes.
Like “my kind” deserves the minimum. Huh? Since when?
It’s not the money part that bugs me, it’s the attitude. We are all supposed to live these marginal lives. We are categorized, diagnosed, placed in “programs.” We wait in dingy, crowded waiting rooms.
No, no no no no. I say this: Come, let’s climb to greatness. Each and every one of us.
Two days of the higher dose of Abilify…can’t say I feel any different.
No, Dr. P, the reason folks stay far, far away from me is not because I make no sense when I talk. After all, I hardly ever talk to anyone, anyway. I hardly ever speak aloud except to Puzzle…or I talk to myself like a crazy person, mumbling away, pretending, when seen in public, that I’m talking on a cell phone.
Funny, you see a guy walking down the street gesturing and speaking in a very animated manner, and until the advent of the cell phone, you’d assume he was speaking to his voices. But now, no, he’s on the airwaves.
Occasionally, though, there’s no cell phone, no Bluetooth, nada. Yep, he’s a crazy. Just another guy off his rocker, or off his medication. Someone to be roped in and put away, surely we should not have to see him out and about like this.
Anyway, I think that no matter how many showers I take, I still reek. I reek of negativity. It leaks out of me and I cannot stop it. People notice, and they can’t stand being around me. So at this point, I’m not gonna hang out with humans and make their lives unpleasant any longer.
This is not a moral issue.
I told Dr. P that this has been going on for something like a year, longer I guess, not days, not a couple of weeks, and she did not believe me.
I told my T I have gone into appointments in the past, and lied my way through because of fear of being “sectioned.” What was I supposed to do? When you are scared, you do what you have to do to survive.
I am scared of those emergency rooms and hospitals, and all the cruel staff in those places. I envision whips and chains.
I wake up in the morning, having barely slept anyway, and wish I had died in the night. I beg my heart to stop beating. It won’t stop. What is day and what is night? Where is God? Where is my family?
Am I nothing but a number in the eyes of God?
No! Who says God has eyes, anyway?
I am tired of the goal being “To stay out of the hospital.” This is not a goal! This is “life support” and I am worth more than being barely alive.
So I went to both appointments, showed up. Turns out I had an appointment already scheduled with Dr. P next week that I had never written down. I had no clue about this appointment, but never mind that, now I can see her next week if I need to, which is mighty handy I think. I’m surprised cuz it’s not like me to overlook stuff like this.
So I show up. I was honest with her and told her the basics. She told me…well, she told me I was making no sense.
Yeah, again. The words don’t add up. Dr. P suggested that maybe it’s hard for others to relate to me cuz right now I’m not making much sense when I speak. She said that it comes out kinda gobbldy-gook.
She said sometimes people who are not psychotic can’t relate to people who are psychotic. Like when I talk nonsense, only psychotic people can relate.
But I don’t think I talk nonsense. I know I get criticized when folks say they can’t follow me, or what I say doesn’t add up, or whatever.
But I really AM a bitch!
There was no arguing with her. I told her that I had promised myself whatever she said I would give an honest try, though I didn’t want a pill, I wanted decent ideas. She said it’s time to raise the antipsychotics. Like by as much as we can get away with. ANY antipsychotic will do, she said………Well, this is wishful thinking on her part, gee, I’m sure she’d love to see me straitjacketed in something like Haldol.
So she went and looked at my meds. 5mg Abilify? She asked me if I was willing to take 10. I said yeah, I am. Two pills for now, then I’ve got a script for the 10mg size. Still, it’s not a whopping dose. I was on 20 for the longest time. I was even on 30 or 40, way too high of course and unnecessary, but I’ve been there. I didn’t want to remind her. Fifteen or 20 or so is generally considered the highest recommended dose. Or maybe 30, depends on the shrink and the situation and whatever. They say above a certain point adds nothing or can give you insomnia or can make you manic or is just ineffective…or let me add dangerous.
So I said I sure was willing to try it. See how it goes and report back to her.
A few hours later, I was at therapy. I told her I had mixed feelings about my appointment with Dr. P. That I felt listened to but not entirely believed about everything. I went on for a bit.
Let’s just say I don’t think I mentioned my family once today. But I did mention Adam Lanza about 20 times. Or probably a lot more times than that. I made a point of reassuring my T that if I had a gun, the first thing I’d probably do is drop it on the floor. I’ll bet those things are darned heavy, way too heavy for my skinny arms, I assured her. I told her I didn’t have one. She said, “That’s undoubtedly a good thing,” or something to that effect.
She’s an okay T. On one hand, I get frustrated talking to her. Not sure why. Just feel like I go nowhere when I talk to her, that I’m accomplishing nothing. Like I’m being “managed.” Now that totally sucks.
In fact, being “managed” sucks royally. Like, low expectations, ya know? Like I ain’t getting far in this world. Like I need “supervision,” sorta, or to be “observed” but same ole same ole. I don’t like that. I feel like a freak, like a societal waste when I’m treated like that. Someone that society puts up with, just deal with me till I die and I’m never, ever gonna make anything of myself anyway.
So I told her my idea of inventing some new way to deal with ED, something that works for those whom “traditional treatment” does not work, that is, a portion of the majority.
She just kinda nodded. Yeah, sure, anything you say, kid. If thinking what I’m thinking keeps me alive, then fine.
We went through the options…day treatment, no, hospitalization, no, some kind of one or two night stay in a “stabilization bed,” no.
Explanation: The stabilization beds are pretty much “get away from home” beds for people who live in crappy situations. I went to one once. It was actually very lonely there. I got no counseling and was ignored by everyone, came home after 24 hours completely disgusted and told myself I should have gone to a hotel if I wanted to get away like that.
I told my T there’s really no decent option for me, that I’ve run the gamut. I’ll take the extra pill and I might in fact feel one helluva lot better in a matter of days.
See, this is how I see it. Folks out there might not understand. There’s this thing called tolerance. Some patients think one suicidal thought and that means they have to go “in.” They cannot tolerate even one thought of suicide because it will send them over the edge, or they find it unbearable. Or they hear one or two voices and they go in. They have low tolerance, or they go in as “preventative.” Or maybe they like being in the hospital.
There are other folks that have higher tolerance. They might be very very psychotic, but because they hold down jobs, they feel that interrupting their jobs or school will cause too much harm, so they stay outpatient and still get the help they need. Or they may hear voices all day and be able to function just fine. Or maybe they have families they are taking care of and all this has to be taken into consideration. Not everyone has to be hospitalized according to the same standards. And yet, insurance insists that these forms get filled out and patients be judged by the numbers.
So I’m dealing with it. Yeah, I gave it a good thought. I thought, gee, it’s nice to have staff around you can talk to whenever you want, and other patients around in the same boat as me. Then I recalled one of the last “staff one to ones” I had, a talk with one of the staff people last summer who was supposedly “good.” She was nodding off while I was talking to her and sneaking peeks at her cell phone the whole time I was talking. Hmm…I know I’m boring, but huh? I couldn’t get the image of her bored, expressionless face out of my head.
I said, “Naw, I’ll be okay.”
My T said, “You sure?”
I said, “Yeah.”
We made an appointment for Friday.
Regarding baloney (not bologna) and my eating disorder and society and the recent tragedy in Newtown, CT
No, my eating disorder is not a person. No, my eating disorder is not named “Ed” and I’ve never thought of it as such. Nor “Ana.” I’m not married to my eating disorder and it isn’t a voice that speaks to me.
“Don’t listen to Ed,” they say. “Ed is talking to you.”
Or, “You are speaking in your ‘Ed voice.’ Stop it.”
Naw, there is no Ed unless you fall for that baloney. And you don’t have to. As soon as you discard the bullshit, it’s gone.
I think often of life as a road. I grew up on Robert Frost’s poem about the path in the woods that was less traveled. I guess I took that path. That’s what mental illness is about. You’re on a bumpy, lonely road.
Being a pedestrian, I tend to stick to the sidewalk of life. There’s enough here to keep me interested. It’s all I can do, all anyone can do, to look both ways before crossing the street. Sometimes, you can cross with the crowd during rush hour and that pretty much guarantees that you won’t be hit. Or so I’d like to believe. I like to think of it as safety in numbers.
I don’t know. Are we safe in crowded movie theaters? Is 26 a high enough number?
Adam Lanza wasn’t born with a gun in his hand. I wasn’t born the bitter, angry, spiteful, and resentful person I am today.
That’s what they say about bullies, that bullies are people who were bullied. Bullies are made. By the road. By that bumpy, lonely road.
Imagine: You are at a social gathering, a party, say, and there’s someone there you don’t want to deal with. Maybe you owe this person money. Or maybe this person smells. Or maybe you heard through the grapevine that this person tends to ask for too many favors. Or calls too much. Or is a little too loud. Or has an accent you struggle to understand. Or has health problems you don’t want to hear about. Or is otherwise inconvenient. There are always days when there are people we want to avoid. So you’re at this party, and whenever this smelly, inconvenient person draws near, you take a few steps away. The party ends and you breathe a sigh of relief. Phew! You’ve avoided talking to her yet another day.
Guess what? I am that person people have been avoiding, and I’ve noticed. Adam Lanza surely noticed, too.
I suppose folks like me, out of defense, build walls or blockades around us or we retreat into some kind of hellish bubble. Sometimes, I think of my eating disorder as part of that private, lonely world. What did Adam think of it as?
It’s time we all crossed the barriers. Just toss out the baloney, everything you’ve heard about me. I didn’t ask for my eating disorder, I just ended up here. We’re all travelers. When we hold hands, the rocky parts seem to smooth out a bit, and we’re less likely to fall.